


The Tranquility of Faith

by JorieSilver



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demons, F/M, Formerly Tranquil Inquisitor, Rite of Tranquility, Spirits, The Fade, Tranquil Inquisitor, Tranquil Mages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 119,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3474470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JorieSilver/pseuds/JorieSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, Aderyn Surana was a promising apprentice at Ferelden's Circle. Now, she's one of the few Tranquil at the Divine's Conclave. But when a miraculous trip to the Fade restores her magic, Aderyn becomes Andraste's Herald. Second chances are all well and good, but sometimes saving the world while processing a decade of trauma doesn't feel much like a blessing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Tranquility

Prologue

~Tranquility~

***

The Harrowing Chamber is colder than I remember.

I’m only vaguely aware that my entire body is shaking, but it’s not about the cold. The last time I was in here, I was about to undertake a trial I knew, deep in my bones, that I would pass.

I’m a strong mage, a _good_ mage. I can keep my wits about me in the Fade better than half the enchanters in the Tower. A tear creeps down my cheek--it’s probably the last time I’ll get to think that. Soon it’ll be I _was_ a strong mage. I _was_ a good mage. I _was_ able to cry.

A sob escapes my lungs, but I’m not ashamed, I’m grateful. I wish I didn’t feel so removed from it, I wish my mind hadn’t detached itself from my body, I wish that particular self-defense mechanism hadn’t kicked in. I want to feel everything--the cold, the crying, the despair. Because soon, all of it will just be ‘preference.’

_I would prefer not to be made Tranquil._

One of my Templar guards shifts. They’re all wearing full plate, helmets included, but I know who that one is. I know from his height, from the breadth of his shoulders, from the patterns of scratches on his left gauntlet and the tiny stain on his purple sash. He’s Cullen Rutherford. _My_ Templar. How many times had he retrieved books for me, smiled at me, blushed at me? He was always my rock in this place. _Remember, Aderyn. You know Cullen. Templars are people, too._ I could always latch onto that simple reminder. And even now, he’s people. But he’s the powerless sort. Like me. Neither of us has any say in what happens today.

It’s all because I’m a fool. I might be able to resist demons, but I could never resist Jowan. He was my best friend, my _brother_. He tricked me into helping him escape, told me of course he wasn’t a blood mage. Of course all his sneaking was about carrying on with Lily. And he got away. What had Irving said? _This Rite of Tranquility will happen, child._

I hate that the First Enchanter is always right. I seize the feeling. It might be the last thing that I ever get to hate.

Cullen shifts again. Where is Irving? Where is Greagoir? Maybe...maybe Greagoir will change his mind. Maybe Irving is convincing him. Maybe I’ll get to walk out of this room after all, maybe none of this will matter. I could be a Circle mage after all--and I would be the best mage that ever walked these halls. I’d never apply to leave the Tower; I’d never make a fuss. I’d pick something profoundly boring to study. Like plants. I could be a botanist. A really, truly boring botanist.

Because even that sounds like a richer life than the endless stretches of blank stares and mild preferences that I’ll actually get.

“So. Okay,” I say out loud. Terror shrinks my voice to something closer to a squeak than anything else. “Let’s pass the time, shall we?” I’m getting hysterical. My cheeks are still wet from crying, but all I want is to feel my voice in my throat, to talk like myself just one more time. “We’ll play a getting-to-know-you game. I’ll start. My name is Aderyn Surana, and I’m about to lose my ability to have basic, heartfelt conversations with scary, well-armed people such as yourselves. Now. Your turn.” I nod to Cullen, and I pray that he answers. I want to hear a friendly voice one last time.

His hand quivers atop his sword, and his armor creaks at the movement. A few of the others shuffle their feet. I’m not making this easy on them, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let my effective execution go easy on anyone. I shift my arms in their shackles--if there weren’t a half dozen Templars actively trying to suppress my magic, I might’ve even made an escape attempt. I might do it anyway. Then they’d have to kill me.

It might be better for everyone if I just died. Especially me. It would be especially good for me.

I stare right at Cullen, and I know he’s staring right at me. I shift my hands. I won’t send my distraction fireball at him, even though it’s going to be a pathetically small fireball. Maybe I’ll just make a run for a window. Maybe I’ll make an epic leap off the top of the Tower.

I can’t be the first one who ever thought to do that. I vaguely remember hearing some kind of Apprentices’ Quarters legend about somebody who survived it. And the falling to my death might be a bit more fun and dramatic than getting unceremoniously beheaded. Unless Cullen does it. ‘Former First Enchanter’s apprentice unceremoniously beheaded by a star-crossed, would-be lover’ sounds like a good story for future apprentices to whisper to each other after curfew.

“Aderyn--” Cullen’s voice carries through the room, muffled by his helm. He shakes head, ever so slightly. I wish I could see his eyes. I wish we could have one of those baffling, juvenile, wordless conversations we’ve had so many times before. Except maybe we are, maybe he really can tell I’m about to make a break for it, and he’s telling me no. I’d rather see him telling me, _you are extraordinary_. I hope he can see me saying the same thing.

Maybe I’ll run across the room into his arms instead. Maybe I’ll tear off his helmet and run my fingers through his hair, just like I’ve imagined doing a thousand times.

Then someone else could kill me. That might be a fun story, too.

I shift to the balls of my feet. I could really do this. I could really dash away to Cullen or the window, towards the kind of pseudo-legendary status I never thought I’d want for myself. I always rolled my eyes at those late-night stories. I was too good, too diligent, too determined to need or want any distractions like that. Another Templar shifts. A third puts his hand on his sword.

I’m going to do it. Blaze of glory. Proper ending. I’m going to give myself a proper ending. My blood roars in my ears, adrenaline narrowing my vision to only a tunnel framed with black, ending with a pretty window.

Footsteps clack against fancy marble floors. Someone is here. More than one someone. I should turn to look at them, but I don’t want to see. Voices are dulled by the unsteady beat of my own pulse. They don’t ever have to be real for me. But a hand falls on my shoulder, and my head snaps toward the person beside me.

Irving. Irving is here.

“Hello, child,” he says. His eyes look bloodshot and sleepless under his heavy brows. Greagoir stands behind him, jaw firm and eyes stony. He’s got the brand in his hand. The lyrium brand. The one that he’s going to press to my forehead. The one that will take away my ability to feel, to cast spells, to laugh and make jokes and blush and love and hate and cry.

Another sob bubbles from my mouth. I watch as tears fall from my cheeks to the ground, and suddenly I can’t stand up any longer, let alone take a running leap out of a window. My knees crash to the ground, and my recently shed tears soak through my silk robes.

It might have been more dignified to keep my composure. Cullen could’ve told people it was ‘quickest, cleanest Rite of Tranquility he’s ever seen.’ But I have my whole life ahead for dignified. For quick and clean. These are my last moments for messy.

“It will be over soon, child. Think of it like a good rest.”

“No,” I say. It’s the firmest my voice has sounded all morning. “Being blind and deaf is not rest.”

But I let Irving, who has been my mentor these last twelve years, since I was barely six years old, help me off the ground. I look Greagoir straight in the eye as he approaches. I won’t let him go without seeing me. I won’t let him get away with this without watching the fire fade from my eyes.

“Aderyn Surana, you have been granted a mercy,” he begins. More well-rehearsed words fall from his mouth, but my mind refuses to hear them.

_Mercy._ I wish someone would have asked my definition of the word.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)


	2. A Breach of Peace

_She's dangerous._

_She's a murderer._

_She's_ _**Tranquil** _ _._

_She killed the Divine._

_She killed them all._

_She can't have. I_ _**know** _ _her._

_You need to go._

_You're needed in the valley._

_Just don't hurt her._

The conversation carries from beyond a thick door. Three voices. They're talking about me, I know. And one of them knows me? My memory tickles at the cadence of the voice, but I can't summon a face. Someone from a long time, I think. Maybe even from before. Before the rebellion, before the Circle got strict, before Uldred, before the Blight, before Jowan betrayed me and I was made Tranquil. From when I could feel things. I think I remember feeling something about that voice.

My head pounds.

The darkness of the dungeon presses around me, and heavy shackles bind my wrists to the floor. It's inescapable. I shift my hands anyway, test them anyway. Why would I do that? What was the point?

I would prefer not to be here. But straining my wrists in metal shackles is only going to injure me-it's not going to get me out. And besides, even if I managed to escape my chains, where would I go? What good would wandering around the cell be?

It's not logical to strain against my bonds.

I'm not acting logically.

The cell door creaks open, and my heartbeat quickens as two sets of boots move towards me. Ten years ago, I might have said I was afraid. But I don't get afraid anymore. I wasn't afraid while helping the soldiers at Ostagar. I wasn't afraid while Uldred tore my home to pieces. No matter what anyone ordered me to do back at the Tower, I was never, ever afraid.

I must be ill. My hand has been hurting. Maybe my racing pulse has something to do with that.

On cue, green light flares to life around my palm, and pain-Maker,  _pain_ -stabs through me, like someone took a knife to hand and somehow pressed it in deep, all the way up my arm and to my chest.

I let out a shaky moan. Moaning is irrational. What's the point of making noise when something hurts? It doesn't make anything go away.

There's something very wrong with me.

"Aderyn Surana," a woman says. "That is your name, is it not?"

I have to force myself to open my eyes. The pain is still intense, and my vision is clouded with stars. But I can see two women in front of me, one a hooded redhead and the other a well-armed warrior.

I nod. "I am Aderyn. Who are  _you_? Where am I?" A thousand more questions threaten to spill from my lips, a decade's worth of questions, as though...as though...I have to slow down. Life makes more sense when you take it a little slower.

The two women exchange glances, and the redhead steps forward to kneel in front of me. "My name is Leliana, and this is Cassandra. We're in the Frostback Mountains, in Haven."

Cassandra paces behind her. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead," she says. "Except for you."

Everyone is dead. Maker, everyone is dead. I think I'm shaking. It's got to be about the hand. I'm sick. Ill.

"I don't remember...I can't..." I can't breathe properly. It has to be from the pain. I squeeze my left hand into a tight fist, digging my nails into my palm. If I focus on the muscles of my hand and wrist and forearm, then I won't be focusing on the pain. I'll be able to think straight again. I won't be shaking. My heartbeat will slow. I take a deep breath, searching for my voice. "I'm in a cell. So you think I did it? You think I killed everyone. But you have a friend who knows me. Knows my name. Who?" Asking about who knows me is safe. I don't feel so much about that question. I want to talk about that instead.

 _Feel._  I feel.

"That's not important right now," Leliana says. "Tell us what you remember."

She just kneels there, like it's the most natural thing in the world. She must have spoken to a number of Tranquil before-she knows she doesn't have to push. She knows I'll tell her what she asks. Why wouldn't I cooperate? She has the power, after all. I would prefer not to be imprisoned. And people are willing to let Tranquil go. We're safe. Harmless. And she knows I won't fight back.

My heart pounds, and I don't feel very tranquil just now.  _Feel._

"I remember…" I need to talk. I need to distract myself. I can't think about feelings right now. I can't think about whatever echoes of my former self are skittering across my soul. Do I have a soul anymore? I never much cared until just now. "I remember running."

"Running," Cassandra repeats flatly. She bristles with impatience. I know her type-she stands like Templar, but she doesn't wear the armor. Like many of her order, she probably abandoned her post when the rebellions started. But she's clearly not shocked by the idea of a Tranquil mage, either-she just doesn't have nearly as much patience for them as Leliana seems to.

Them? Us. I meant us. I am Tranquil.

"Yes. Running. There were things that looked like spiders, and they were chasing me. And there was a woman. She saved me." I keep my voice flat. If I keep my voice flat, the torrent of  _everything_  that seems to be rushing through my veins won't be real. It seems so  _real_.

"A woman?" Leliana presses. "Do you know who the woman was?" I shake my head, but I really just wish she would keep talking. Leliana's steady voice is soothing, and it makes it easier to pretend like my heart isn't threatening to escape from my throat. Like I can't feel the fear shaking through my bones. Like I can't  _feel_  at all.

"No. I do not know who the woman was. I woke up here. My hand. What is wrong with it?" I hold my palm to Leliana, and the green light flashes quickly and painfully across my skin. This time, I think it's more like a dagger point is coming out of me rather than going in. The pain starts in  _me_.

"We were hoping you could tell us that," Leliana says. "I'm sorry you cannot."

"I would prefer to be helpful," I say. Is that true? Did I lie? I can't recall lying. Not for a long, long time. I can't think about that right now. I need to think about something else. "Who do you know that knows me?" I ask quickly. Too quickly. Can they tell the difference?

"Leliana, go," Cassandra says sharply. "I will take her to the rift."

Her eyes narrow, but she nods and leaves me behind without another word.  _Come back,_ my mind screams.  _Come back so I can pretend a while longer than I'm just feeling a little ill._

"What is the rift?" I ask.

But Cassandra doesn't answer me. Perhaps she doesn't see the point. She just unlocks my shackles and drags me to my feet. My legs tingle from too long in one position, and the shackles left angry rings of raw skin on my wrists. She pulls out a length of rope and starts to tie them again. Usually I'd prefer not to be tied. Usually I'd prefer that my wrists not hurt. But the pain of rope against raw skin is so much less than the pain in my head or my hand that I'm almost grateful for the distraction.  _Grateful._  That's a good one. I remember grateful.

Cassandra drags me out of my cell. She leads me through a long, narrow dungeon, but it seems to hold far more grain than prisoners. Upstairs, we enter a long, open room, with high ceilings and sparse furnishings. The heady scent of incense permeates the air.

A chantry? What sort of chantry has such an extensive dungeon?

"Where are you taking me?" I ask.

"Come." Cassandra pulls open the door at the front of the chapel, and the light of day blinds me.

The sun that burns my eyes glitters across an entire world covered in snow. It should be white, pure white, but something green creeps at the edges of the light. Green like before, when I was running. From spiders. Or were they spiders? Fear certainly crawls across my skin like a thousand tiny spider legs at the memory. Taking those first tentative steps into the snow might be the scariest thing I'll ever do.

Outside, the only thing I know is that the sky is  _wrong_. There's something green and swirling and sickening mingling with the clouds, like a wound. I look to Cassandra, and she just pushes my shoulder forward, forcing me to move forward through town.

I'm fine. People are glaring at me, but I'm not a stranger to unfriendly stares-not many mages or Templars are actually very comfortable around the Tranquil, and even fewer common folk can do much but gawk. Cassandra isn't being particularly accommodating, but I can handle that too.

I take a step. I'm fine.

I take another. Still fine.

One more. Suddenly, I'm in  _pain._

It starts with my hand again, but this time, I can feel it pulse outward, like the mark is growing with renewed proximity to the great gash in the sky. If I don't look at it-if I focus on something else-

My legs fall out from under me, and my knees scrap against icy stones. I keep my eyes closed, I can't open them, not ever. If I look at it, it'll be worse, it'll hurt worse, I'll be broken. Forever.

I might be broken right now. All the pain of a decade seems to reverberate within me-the burn of lyrium on my skin, the cut of a Darkspawn blade I didn't even try to stop, the fists of a Templar I didn't bother to resist. I was the little elven Tranquil-who would care? Not me. The pain was temporary. The pain was better than all the bother of defiance.

Now I care. With every ache in every fibre of my entire being, I  _care_.

Maker, something is so very, very wrong with me.

A hand falls to my shoulder. I manage to open my eyes, and Cassandra's gaze has softened before me. Something like pity flickers in the dark shadows in her eyes.

"Can you stand?"

"Not yet."

"I'll wait." She looks away, towards some of the townspeople. She certainly cuts an imposing figure-cheekbones chiseled as though in stone, high-arching browns, a sharp jaw. If I were normal, if I didn't have this sunburst brand on my forehead, I'm sure she'd be talking to me. She'd be telling me something at least.

"If it would make you more comfortable, you may speak to me like any other person. There is nothing wrong with my intellect." My tongue remembers the last ten years better than the eighteen that came before-my tone is very tranquil. I think I hate that, just a little. I remember hate, too, with all it's gnawing, hollow aches.

Cassandra sighs. "No, I suppose there isn't anything wrong with your mind." And then the information I've been starving to hear pours from her mouth.

The green wound in the sky is a tear in the Veil, demons have been pouring to our world from the Fade. They're calling the biggest one the Breach-but there are more, many more, each a little rift in reality. They all started with the explosion at the Conclave. Because apparently this is a thing that can happen when temples explode.

And the mark. It's expanding with the Breach, growing hour by hour. And as the Breach swallows the world, that mark is swallowing me.

I'm dying, just in time to be sad about it.

But there's a bright side-I might be able to close these rifts, including the massive Breach, with that glowing palm of mine. So I might have a chance to be a hero before I die.

"You believe I did this," I say at the close of her speech.

"Yes," she confirms. "Though to whose purpose, I cannot say."

"You believe someone ordered me to do it."

"Didn't they?"

I want to say no. Of course not. I would never blow up an entire Conclave, not even on some else's orders. But there are gaps in my recent memory, big ones. If someone told me, Tranquil me, to destroy a temple full of people, would I have done it? Probably not. I don't think so. But if someone asked me to perform some kind of arbitrary task that led to an explosion at that Conclave, would I have asked for details? Would I have known what I was doing? Could I have unwittingly murdered a thousand people?

My gut twists at the thought. I could have done this. I might be guilty. There might be a thousand lives on my hands. Some hero I'd be-cutting short the catastrophe I myself unleashed.

"I do not know. I do not remember." My head spins, but the pain my hand has faded to an insistent throb. "I can stand, now." If I stand up, if we keep walking, I won't have to think about all the people I probably killed.

Maker, I've been thinking so much about my pain and my creeping feelings, that I haven't spared a moment to really understand what  _everyone's dead_ really means. Petra was there, Petra who was always kind to me. Harmon. Nissa. Leon. All figures from my life, all kind, all willing to bring me with them to the Conclave because I  _preferred_  to visit new places. I  _preferred_  to see history in the making. I  _preferred_  to be near to excitement that I could never feel.

Now they're all dead, and I might have killed them.

Cassandra doesn't look back at me as she leads me through town and across a bridge. A frozen lake glitters beneath us, and under different circumstances, I might've ignored the cold just to admire it for awhile. Besides, if I keep thinking about how pretty the lake is, I won't think about all the dead that have fallen like bricks onto my conscience.

On the far side of the bridge, Cassandra cuts the rope binding my hands. I wince and rub my wrists.

"You are freeing me?"

"There will be hard terrain ahead. You will need your hands."

"Yes. That is logical."  _Logical_. The sky is bleeding demons. Nothing is logical anymore, not even me. None of this makes any sense. Not my footfalls in the snow, not the Breach, not the rifts, not the mark on my hand. Not the fear in my gut or the grief in my chest or the guilt that seeps through all my pores.

When come to a smaller bridge, this one crossing a frozen stream, my mark pulses like it did in town. I glance up to Breach, and something green and magical and terrifying hurtles towards me with searing ferocity.

Somebody screams as the bridge falls away under my feet. I scramble to stay upright, to avoid tumbling bricks. I won't die, not now, not from something as silly as a fall. I have to save all the people I haven't managed to kill yet, after all. My feet struggle to find purchase on the ice, but I slide forward, away from the bridge.

I drag my hands across the ice, trying to gain control of my movements. By the time I manage to stop, a shadow looms across my legs. I force my eyes upward-I don't want to see. If I see, it'll be real, and the fear that follows will be even more real, and I won't be able to stop screaming. There will be questions, so many questions, and so much more fear-

My eyes lock with a Shade.

The fear tightens within me. Focuses.  _I would prefer not to die._  Except this time, it's more than preference, more than a vague desire for this over that. I  _want_  to live. I might have just killed a thousand people, but I  _want_.

A staff catches on the edge of my vision. I don't think. The thing that drives my legs as I run to it, that moves my fingers as I grasp it, is an old instinct, buried deep in my muscles.

The Shade shouldn't be able to see me. I'm Tranquil, invisible to demons. But it follows me anyway, sees me anyway. And maybe it's time to stop pretending that I'm still Tranquil at all.

I shift my hand to the center of the staff, finding it's balance. My plan is to hit the Shade over the head with a glorified stick until it drops dead. That'll work. Sure. Except frost flickers to life at the top of the staff. I can feel the cold radiate through my fingers, but it doesn't hurt me-it can't hurt me, because it's  _mine._  My frost. My magic.

My arms remember exactly how to flick the staff to send that ball of magic toward the Shade's face. Forward, back, forward, back. It comes close, takes a swing. I sidestep easily. Ten year old combat training burns through my blood along with rushing adrenaline.

Behind my back, I throw one last ball of ice, and the Shade falls, crumpling with an unceremonious flutter. How many times have I seen something like that? A hundred? A thousand? I saw it during lessons from my own apprenticeship, then later during exercises I thought I'd never participate in again. But I saw that flutter over and over under different circumstances, when the Tower fell. Demons killing friends, friends killing demons. Friends bleed more. They don't flutter. I didn't care.

Maker, I didn't care.  _I would prefer not to remember how nearly everyone I ever knew died at once, ten years ago, when I lacked the capacity to mourn._

I snap my eyes up, back to the present. Here and now, Cassandra moves toward me with her sword drawn.

"Drop your weapon.  _Now._ "

The staff falls from my hand and clatters onto the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)


	3. A Mark of Magic

The staff is on the ground, but magic is  _everywhere_. Sparks fly across my fingertips, flames lick at my palms. I can't shake it-a decade of unused power screams through my blood.

If I twist my fingers one way, a fireball will melt the snow. If I push my palm another way, I can shake the very earth. Grease? I can summon that. Set it aflame, watch my imagined enemies burn. You want a lightning storm? I have it, all of it, a whole well of magic that's been building up for my entire adult life. Is it an adult life when you can't feel anything? Does it count as life?

Laughter threatens to spill out of my entire person. I want to fill my chest and mouth and ears with a sound that I haven't made for a decade. Because right now, I'm so very  _alive_.

But laughter shouldn't fill this valley of corpses. Even giddy with forgotten power, I know that much. It's not the first time I've seen death or battlefields, but I've never felt it before. When I was an apprentice, a child, I dabbled a little in playing at war, but by the time war was upon me, there was nothing left of the fierce woman I always wanted to be. I just...watched. Tranquil. I didn't have any fight in me.

I have so much fight right now. I'm healed, cured, blessed by that glowing woman who took my hand and pushed me from the Fade. Maybe I committed heinous crimes in these last days, but that person who was so open to suggestion? That person wasn't me. I'm something powerful, fearsome, magical.  _Strong._

Cassandra moves closer, and her own hand glows. The Templar's ability flows easily from her, and the flames and sparks and frost shrink and fade. My breath comes in panicked gasps as she pushes all my power back into a knot in my chest.

Some part of me knows that she's subduing a potentially dangerous prisoner. But the rest of me aches for that magic, reaches for it even as she locks it away.  _No, no no._ I won't be powerless again. I won't give it up. I won't go quietly.

 _Think of it like a good rest,_ Irving said.

I never should have gone quietly.

"Explain yourself," she demands. She presses her blade to my throat, and I try to focus on her face, on her eyes, her words and her question. Explain myself? To her? I can't even explain this to  _me_.

"I did not know I could do that."

"What do you mean, you didn't know?"

I grasp for words, but I don't have the words for this. There's a sword at my throat, and I can feel the Templar in her pressing even harder at my magic.  _My magic._ For a moment, I want to reach my hand up despite it all, to check my forehead for the brand. It's still there isn't it? It has to be. It has to be.

But if there's still lyrium branded in my forehead, how can magic crackle beneath my skin? How can I be full to bursting with long forgotten emotions? How can I fear the blade at my throat, the dark eyes that flash so close to mine? How can my heart race in my chest?

"It must be the mark."

"The mark. That you conveniently cannot remember obtaining."

"I told you what I remember."

"Yes, the running and the spiders and the woman. You left out the magic."

"I did not know about the magic."

"Then let's talk about the fear." He jaw tightens, and she presses her sword's edge harder against my skin. A whimper falls from my mouth.

"I would prefer not to have a sword at my neck."

"Do not speak to me like you are Tranquil. I have eyes. You are clearly something else entirely."

"I…" I can't say she's wrong. I'm clearly not Tranquil at all. "When I woke up, I knew something was wrong. Different. Healed, perhaps. I have not...I have not…" I have not been afraid since that day in the Harrowing chamber. I have not laughed. I have not ached or mourned or smiled. How am I supposed to articulate my feelings right now? I could barely do it ten years ago. I was eighteen. A child, or close to it, and so much separates me from my former self. I haven't cursed the Maker for the Blight yet, let alone the hole in the sky that I just learned about this morning. I haven't cried over Jowan or Senior Enchanter Sweeney or Niall or...Anders.  _Shit_. Anders. If I ever meet Anders again, we can bond over our enormous body counts. Except that maybe I didn't kill all those people. Maybe I'm innocent. He's certainly not. Anders was my friend, once.

It's been a long time since I could truly call anyone 'friend.'

Cassandra pulls her sword away from my neck, if only just a little, and she eases her hold on my magic. "You look confused."

"I am indeed very confused." The mark on my hand flares to life, and I grimace as the pain washes over me again. I can't say it's getting better, but my body seems to have decided that the pain isn't a signal of imminent death. At least my knees seem to have decided they can keep holding the rest of me off the ground.

Cassandra's eyes flit to the mark and back to my face before sheathing her sword. "We are not finished speaking about this," she warns. "But closing the Breach is a more immediate matter."

"Thank you," I breathe. Gratitude-there it is again. Anything that isn't fear feels like the most incredible of blessings.

"Don't leave without the staff."

"What?"

"There will be more demons, and I cannot protect you." Cassandra nods to me as I kneel to pick up the weapon at my feet. She walks down the path, and I follow close. Without the Templar suppression holding me back, I snap my fingers, and a tiny flame appears just above my thumb. Even that small trickle of magic feels like an unimaginable blessing.

"Don't do that," Cassandra shoots across her shoulder.

"Practicing is logical," I reply, tilting my head as the flame dances across my vision.

"I find it very...disconcerting...that you can talk like that and cast spells at the same time."

"I would prefer to speak in a different manner. I would prefer that I had never been made Tranquil at all."

Cassandra sighs, and I'm sure she thinks I'm being difficult on purpose. But I've forgotten how to be difficult. But right now, there are two of me. One is this person in my skin who can feel and cast spells, this eighteen-year-old girl who's racing through the last ten years at breakneck speed. The other person is me, the me I've been for so long. The one who's so detached from feelings and reality that she can't speak in anything but soft tones and mild preferences.

That first girl can't talk yet, and despite my expressed preference, I'm not sure I ever want her to. For if she finds her voice, I'm sure she'll end up shedding more tears than a single person can hold, and I would prefer not to cry.

So we make our way through the valley mostly in silence. A few more demons block the way, but nothing like a horde. Cassandra fights with steady precision-she was either a high ranking Templar or one who had been terribly overlooked by her superiors.

My spells form more clumsily than I'd like to admit. I've spent too much of the last decade watching experienced masters cast spells to be as delusional as my younger self had been about her expertise. But I'm even clumsier than that silly girl. Rusty, like armor left too long in the rain. And yet, skilled or not, I'm not lacking for raw power. I took this for granted, once.  _Of_   _course_  I would always have such power.  _Of course_  I would never lose it.  _Of course_ I would never be made Tranquil. I was the First Enchanter's own apprentice. I was  _someone_.

I swear to Andraste, to the Maker or the elven gods, to whoever might be up in the sky, waiting to answer prayers, that I will never ever take this power for granted again. Just please, dear gods above, do not take it from me. I cannot lose it again.

As we approach a hill, the clang of sword and the twang of arrows echoes across the ice. Cassandra quickens her pace, and I struggle to keep up on the frozen bank.

"Who is fighting?"

"The rift is ahead. This way."

On the ruins of the road, a small group of soldiers are locked in battle with demons. Here they're swarming, each swirling with shadows and tricky light so the whole battlefield hardly looks real. And above them, is the rift.

It's wrong. My eyes slide over it like slime against rock-how can they stand it? My palm aches in its presence, but I can't think about the pain. Can't think about the  _wrongness_.

I twist my staff and call lightning from the sky, and the old scream of magic is enough to keep my mind distracted. If I just kill some demons, I won't have to look at the rift. Yet.

Another elf slings spells beside me. He moves strangely as he casts-maybe he's not a Circle mage? He lacks the markings of Dalish elf, but his spells seem too precise for a self-taught apostate. Perhaps he's from a far distant Circle? In the Anderfels, or Nevarra. A wraith in front of him freezes, and a crossbow bolt shatters its head into a million shards of green ice. I fling a fireball across the field at a shade approaching Cassandra's back.

And then, the rift  _shifts_. A high pitch hum hit my ears, and the tear slides just a tad in the sky, and it feels like if I turned my head, I might see just a sliver of the Fade behind it.

The elf beside me shouts something into my ear, but I can't hear. The hum has a melody, it  _moves_ , and the song is captivating and consuming and ugly. Someone is tugging at my staff. I let it fall to the ground. Fingers grasp my wrist. Something pushes my hand skyward, my left hand, my marked hand.

Light arcs from my palm to the rift, and it hurts, but it's a sickly sweet pain, sliding through me like sugar syrup on an empty stomach. Breath flies from my lungs, and I can't inhale, I can't move. The song twists to a scream, and it's pulling me apart, tearing me up. I have to move my hand. I have stop. Stop, it needs to  _stop._

Silence falls like a drumbeat, and the rift is gone.

Everyone watches me. Cassandra, the elf, a dwarf with a crossbow, a pair of uniformed soldiers. My breath is quiet and shallow. My head spins. Do they expect me to speak? I should probably say something. But I have no words to fill the silence left by that song.

"Can somebody explain to me what the hell just happened?" the dwarf calls.

"Our friend here just closed a rift," the elf says.

"Yeah, and what about before that? With the fireballs. Can you explain  _that_  to me? Because I was under the impression that ' _our friend'_  was Tranquil."

"Not anymore, it seems," Cassandra says.

"It's not the first time such a thing has happened. You all remember the White Spire."

"That's not exactly comforting, Chuckles. Because if you're remember,  _that_  guy? He was an abomination. And she just walked out of the Fade. Where  _demons_ live. So 'friend.' Are you an abomination?" the dwarf turns to me, and I freeze.

"No. At least I do not believe so."

"You do not  _believe?_  Well, that's comforting." He grips his temples and turns to Cassandra. "Seeker. What are we going to do about her?"

 _Seeker._ Puzzle pieces start to fall in my mind. Cassandra. Cassandra  _Pentaghast_. Leliana. Leliana the  _Nightingale_ , the right and left hands of the Divine Justinia.  _Oh_.

" _You_  are going to hold your tongue.  _I_ am going to take her to the Breach."

"What if-"

" _No_ , Varric. Our priority must be the Breach. And you will remember that you are still a prisoner."

"You are a prisoner?" I ask.

"Yeah, just like you, Glowstick. When exactly did you stop being Tranquil, by the way? Just so I know how much time you've had to evaluate this whole 'I might be possessed' predicament."

"This morning, I think. Your name is Varric?" I reply.

"Lovely. It knows my name." The dwarf, this Varric, turns to continue down the road. The elf, true to his bestowed nickname, chuckles as Cassandra dashes to catch up. The two of them start to argue, and they look look like they've had a lot of practice.

"I am Solas, if there are to be introductions," he says. He tilts his head, and all I can think is that if I were that bald, I would be wearing a hat.

"My name is Aderyn. I really do not think I am an abomination."

He laughs again. "No, I don't think so, either. I thought it was possible that your trip to the Fade would restore your connection to it. I didn't think my idle theory was worth sharing. Though, with Varric's reaction, I wish I had."

"Why is he more upset about me than you and Cassandra are?"

"Varric has a certain history with friendly looking abominations."

"I do not know what means."

"You have heard of the man who started the Kirkwall mage uprising? Well, he and Varric were once rather friendly. He did not take his more murderous inclinations very well."

"Oh." Varric knows Anders.  _I_  know Anders. Well, knew him. Once. A long time ago. When I heard about Kirkwall, I barely blinked an eye, but I can feel the strangeness of it all twist in me now. The Anders I knew was an older boy, the kind that seems so very  _interesting_  to younger girls. He loved cats. He made jokes. He wore that stupid earring. He used to sneak whiskey into the Apprentices' Quarters to share. And Varric knows the version of him that is an abomination. The version that started a war. I can't even begin to understand how to feel about that, so I push it out of my mind. Here and now. I should focus on the here and now. "You said I closed the rift."

"You did indeed. It seems you hold the key to our salvation."

"Of course. Yes." Turn my hand, and the mark flashes in response. I almost let myself forget the here and now is just as terrifying as my memories.

"Come. It will be easier to focus on the task at hand than stand here and try to make sense of the universe as it falls to pieces."

I just nod. I wonder if he thinks I'm half-dead still, or if he can tell that there are a half a million emotions running just beneath my skin. He watches me carefully as we catch up to Varric and Cassandra, who seem to have come to some kind of grudging truce.

"So,  _are_  you innocent?" Varric asks, and Cassandra rolls her eyes.

"I do not remember what happened."

"Lovely. She's a spell-casting Tranquil, potential abomination, and amnesiac. You know, if I put this in one of my books, my publisher would laugh me out of the business."

"The end of the world scenario wouldn't have stopped them already?" Solas asks.

"Nah, people love the end of the world. It's characters with no answers that tend to bother them."

"I would prefer to be helpful," I say. I can hear my speech getting worse, more closed off, more  _Tranquil_  as the day goes on. Close rifts. That's what I have to do. All I have to do is hold my hand to the sky, endure a little pain, and save the world. Later, I can rest. Later, I can think. Later, I can cry.

"You're really starting to creep me out, you know that?" Varric says. Solas glares at him, but I find that Varric's words don't bother me very much. I've been making ordinary people uncomfortable for a long time.

"I will smile, if that would make you feel more comfortable."

"Under the circumstances, I think not."

"Quiet," Cassandra says. "Now that you've all wasted time getting to know each other, we must continue to the Breach."

* * *

The path through the valley wears at my feet. We're off to join the army, or whatever passes for one at the moment, so we can make our way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes-and the Breach.

At some point, a man from the Chantry yelled at me. We saw Leliana again. Cassandra asked me a question, but I couldn't answer. I don't even remember what the question was. The pain in my hand has increased to something of a constant thing, and I don't have it in me to feel anymore. I keep periodically summoning flames just to make sure my magic isn't disappearing with my emotions. But I'm just tired, I think. I just need to concentrate on my feet, one in front of the other.

The soldiers look as tired as I am, but the further we go, the clearer it becomes-there's a rift up head, and the fighting has been constant.

"They look like shit," Varric mutters. I can't disagree.

Fighting comes quickly back to my wind-numbed arms. A flick of fire, a bit of lighting. Frost from the tip of my staff. A few of the men continue to fight with us, but most watch, glad for the reprieve. I lift my hand up a few times in the middle of the fight, but it's no use. I have to watch the rift, wait for that shift in its edges, before the mark seems to do anything at all.

But when it happens, when the song shifts, I lift my hand, embrace the pain, and feel the rift close as before.

I close my eyes and take a moment to catch my breath. And when I open them, there's someone moving towards me, head cocked to the side. As he comes closer and the pain fades from my hand, I see his features clearly-pretty face, stubbled chin, tawny eyes, golden curls.

I know that face. It's been nearly ten years, but I  _know_  that face.

"Aderyn?" he says. There's a wariness in his walk, and I imagine that his stride is full of questions. Did you just cast spells? Are you still Tranquil? Do you remember me? If you do, does it matter?

"Cullen?" I breathe. My heart, which I thought didn't have any ache left in it, pounds painfully in my chest, inching towards my throat. Cullen.  _My_  Templar.

He nods at me, and through all the years and all our scars, his eyes shine bright as ever. And when they meet mine, I can almost imagine that I'm still an over-confident apprentice and he's still an over-idealistic Templar. I can almost feel the flutters of our youthful, wordless exchanges. In his eyes, I see what I always wanted to see:

_You are extraordinary._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)


	4. Hatred, and more Forgotten Sweetness

I can't tear my eyes away. People are staring, but I don't care. Cullen is here. What had I said to him the last time we spoke?  _Your turn._  And he just shook his head, because we were both so very powerless.

Except that wasn't the last time we spoke-we lived in the same Tower for a whole year after that. The girl in me, the girl who  _felt,_  keeps trying to think of my years of Tranquility as something that happened in a fog, or else something that happened to someone else, but the memories are just as sharp as my earlier ones. Those years are just as real.

Before Uldred tore our home to shreds, Cullen wouldn't make eye contact. He was hurt and sad and confused, and I didn't care. I wasn't sad because I couldn't be sad, and it wasn't  _logical_  to focus on that one Templar when there was a Tower full of people to work alongside. But after Uldred. After.

There weren't so many people left. And I knew,  _everyone_  knew, that Cullen had been tortured. Physically, yes, but also mentally, with visions of a future he could never have. Visions of a future with me, the intact, whole, determined me. The me with fire in her fingertips and lightning in her fists. Who could have those wordless conversations from across the library, whose eyes could tell him just how extraordinary he was. And for him, that girl was dead. Her corpse just insisted on walking around the Tower to haunt him.

Mostly, he still ignored me. Mostly, I let him. But there was one day when we were somehow the only available hands for restoring the chapel, and Owain had scheduled us to work together. Because he didn't understand Cullen's feelings either.

Benches. We were building benches. And he sat himself on one side of the chapel, carefully maintaining his distance. I knew that it would be much more efficient to hammer at the  _same_  bench instead of separate ones. So he sat across the room, and I kept  _following_  him.

" _Stop,"_ he'd said. " _Please, just stop. Just work over there."_

" _It is logical to work in the most efficient manner,_ " I'd insisted.

" _Don't you remember why this is hard for me?"_

" _But building the benches will be faster if we work together."_

" _Aderyn, please believe me when I say that I would not be able to work faster if we worked together."_ He'd grimaced, and I'd tilted my head, studying him. I remembered our blushing glances. I remembered feeling something for him. But I didn't feel anything anymore.

" _Is this because you wanted to kiss me before?"_ I'd thought expressing understanding would make him more comfortable. He would know that the girl he cared for-and who cared for him-was still there. I was just different. Shifted. But he drew in a sharp breath, and I knew he was feeling a kind of hurt I could remember, but I couldn't return.

" _Yes. That's part of it."_

" _If it would make you more comfortable, you could kiss me now. I would prefer that you be more comfortable."_ For a moment, I thought he might even do it. I hadn't had tons of practice with such things-just early kissing games with Jowan and some of the other apprentices, spinning stolen wine bottles and trading pecks with whoever the neck pointed to. But kissing Cullen would have been different. It wouldn't have been a game. I remembered that, even though we'd never done it. But that day, it wouldn't have been heart-pounding or sweet. That day, it only seemed  _logical_.

He fled the room, his boots heavy on the stone floor. I was alone in the chapel after that, me and all those unfinished benches. So I picked up the hammer and I picked up a nail and I swung. Over and over until it was long past dinner and all of the benches were finished. Just hammer, nail. Hammer, nail.

_Hammer, nail._

Someone told me he requested transfer that very afternoon. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that's the last time we spoke. Me, in monotone, offering to kiss him, as if putting fresh cracks in his heart would make him more  _comfortable_.

I hope he isn't thinking of that day now. I hope he remembers joking about the horrors of botany in the gardens. I hope he remembers all the times he smiled at me and I smiled in return. Or maybe I hope that I'm just a distant blur of a memory for him, some old hurt long tucked away.

Or maybe I don't. Standing in the snow in front of him, maybe I just wish we could look at each other forever.

"You were casting spells," Cullen says.

"Yes."

"You look…"

He's waiting for me to supply some kind of end to that statement, I think, but I can't find anything to say. How do I look? I haven't thought about how I look since I woke up. I don't think I've thought much about how I looked for ten years. I'm wearing someone else's clothes. I'm dirty and tired and so very afraid. When's the last time I looked in a mirror? A month ago? A year? How  _do_  I look?

"I hope my appearance is not distressing to you," I say. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they're wrong. I should have joked, I should have had some kind of awkward, stuttering, blushing thing to say. That's how I used to talk to Cullen, yes? I remember blushing with Cullen.

"I-no. No, of course not." He smiles, but it doesn't make it to his eyes. I try to smile back, but I'm afraid it's the forced, practiced thing that I adopted in the last decade-like many Tranquil-to make others feel more comfortable. "You closed the rift," he says, changing the subject.

"Yes." I hold up my hand, the the mark flashes. He watches it, and I watch him. He's older than I remember, but I'm older too. Somewhere he picked up a scar on his upper lip and lost the armor of a Templar. Lines sit at soft angles around his eyes. I hope he rediscovered his goodness, his decency, his  _faith_ , when I wasn't nearby to haunt him.

"Rutherford!" a soldier calls. "We've got demons to the east." Cullen nods to the soldier and adjusts his shield. He looks to me, his eyes studying mine for just a moment longer, and I hope he sees me in there somewhere.

"Good luck, Aderyn. I can't believe-"

I shake my head before he says goodbye or something like it. Because after closing all these smaller rifts, I'm not sure that closing the Breach  _won't_  kill me, if only because a body can only take so much pain. And I can't think about that right now. Or maybe I can't think about how dying might not sound so very bad. If I die, I'll never have to cry.

"I'll see you on the other side, Cullen Rutherford." For a moment, I almost sound alive.

* * *

The Temple of Sacred Ashes is a ruin worse than I could've imagined. Bodies sit twisted among toppled walls and crumbled floors. The whole place smells like sulfur and something worse. And just at the edge of hearing, almost too high pitched for my ears, I can hear the Breach. Humming.

Leliana greets us at the entrance with her archers. She and Cassandra are all business as we move through what's left of twisted hallways. Left, then right. The hall opens to a cavern, and it glows red and green in turn, with a rift in the middle and the Breach overhead.

This is worse than the Tower was.  _Everyone_  here died. At the Tower, some of us were left over to rebuild. The library was dirty and bloody, but there were still books to be read. The dormitories were emptier than they'd been before, but they were still standing. When you found a corpse, you could sometimes puzzle out who it belonged to.

Nothing is standing here-at least, nothing that isn't about to fall down. And that rift in the center, where there'd once been a room that held the Sacred Ashes, the remains of Andraste herself, there is only that spiky rift standing under a window to the sickliest part of the Fade I've ever seen.

"Are you ready?" Cassandra asks.

I'm sure my former self would have something witty to say at that, because the idea of even getting up to the great green wound in the sky is ridiculous. But my jaw just drop as my eyes track the sky, and I shake my head.

"No," Solas says, following my eyes. "That rift is the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and we seal the Breach."

"You sound very sure about that," I say.

"Somebody should sound sure about something," Varric says. He moves ahead, along the outside of the ruins. "C'mon. Let's find a way down there."

As we move further, my gut twists into tighter and tighter knots. Some kind of red rock cuts through the walls in jagged columns, and when I pass close enough, I can feel it, pulsing in time with the magic in my veins.  _This is how lyrium used to feel._

"Varric-" I begin. I read his  _Tale of the Champion_. The lyrium he mentioned in the book, the  _red_  lyrium-it wasn't here before. And now it's  _everywhere_. I try to catch his eye, but he keeps his eyes trained on the lyrium.

"Seeker," he says. "You know this stuff is red lyrium, don't you?"

"I see it, Varric."

"But what's it  _doing_  here?"

Cassandra answers, but suddenly that faint hum the Breach turns to a deafening whine, and the pain in my hand flares, and the green light of my mark mingles with the red glow of the lyrium, and all it takes everything I have just to keep standing.

 _Now is the hour of our victory_.

The voice booms around my person, more felt in my bones than heard in my ears.

_Bring forth the sacrifice._

"What are we hearing?" Varric asks, his voice faint and gravelly under the whine of the Breach.  _Breathe_ ,  _Aderyn. You have to breathe._ In, out. In, out.

"At a guess? The person who created the Breach," Solas answers.

They can hear it too. Good. That's good. I'm not  _completely_  insane. Except all I can think about is how, at any moment, my monotone will ring across the ruins, will echo against corpses, and everyone will know what exactly I did.  _I_  will know what I did.

One foot in front of the other. Deep breaths. If I seal the Breach, I can start to atone. Or maybe I'll die, and then I won't have to live with my crimes for long. Maybe the mark will disappear with the tear in the sky and take my magic with it, and then I can go back to being unfeeling Aderyn Surana, Tranquil mage from Kinloch Hold. I could go back to restoring books. I've done that a lot in the last ten years. I was good at restoring books.

 _Keep the sacrifice still_.

_Someone, help me!_

That last was female, Orlesian, older. The Divine. And then another voice calls out. Smaller, flatter. Me.

_What is happening here?_

"That was you," Cassandra says. "Most Holy called out to you-"

_Run while you can, warn them!_

The ruins shimmer for a moment, and outlined against the green of the rift, I can see the Divine, bound with her hands outstretched before a tall figure with red eyes. And then me, taking small steps towards them, eyes downturned.

 _Run_. I hadn't run in years.

 _We have an intruder,_  the tall figure intones.  _Kill her. Now._

And the shimmer fades, taking the vision with.

"You  _were_ there!" Cassandra says. Her eyes are light with hope, but I don't know where to look or what to say-the Divine called out to me, yes, but would I have answered? If I thought answering her plea would've killed me, would I have preferred not to die?

"Who attacked you?" Cassandra asks. Her hands find my shoulders, she shakes me, trying to find a reaction, something human in this husk of a person I can't sort out. "And the Divine. Is she-was this vision true? What are we seeing?"

"I do not remember what happened," I whisper. I feel sick-I was the very worst person someone could have called to for aid. I would've barely fought for my own life, let alone someone else's. I have memories enough to prove it.

"Cassandra," Solas says sharply, and she loosens her grip on my narrow frame. "It was echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place." He walks toward the center of the ruin, his eyes trained skyward. "This rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, it can be opened, and then sealed properly-and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side."

"That means demons," Cassandra says, forgetting her questions for the moment.  _The Breach must be our priority._

"I can do it," I say. The words come before I know they're on my lips. I need to do it, if only to prove that I'm not that girl any longer, the one who might have saved herself at the expense of not only the Divine, but everyone else in that Temple. How did I live, if not by trading my life for theirs? I must have done it. It must be, in some small way, my fault.

"Maybe you need a rest for a moment," Solas murmurs. He can see my shaking knees. He's watched me fade through the day. He knows I'm tired, but I'm fairly certain waiting will only make it worse. More time to think of all the horrible things that have happened during the last ten years? I'd much rather die trying to close this rift.

I hold out my hand, and lightning cracks against the ground across the ruin. "I am ready now."

My eyes find Cassandra, and she nods to me. "Be ready!" she calls to the archers around us. I find the balance of the staff in my right hand and hold my left to the rift.

The pain screams as before, but the feeling is different, this time. I'm not pressing the rift together, but letting it free, pulling a tear instead of pressing it back together. It's easier, in a way, than going the other direction.

I take one breath.

Two.

Three.

And the rift roars open.

A pride demon steps into the world, thirty feet tall, muscled, and so much more decidedly solid any of the lesser demons we'd been fighting all day. Leliana's archers immediately start peppering it with arrows.

I throw ice from my staff, eyes trained on the rift above me. I can't do anything yet, but in a moment, it will shift. And when it shifts, I'll hold up my hand and I'll press it together and all of this will be over.

Because I've decided that's what's going to happen. I'm going to close this rift, the mark will disappear, and I'll lose all this magic and all these feelings, or else I'll make a valiant effort, and I'll die. It'll be someone else's job to figure out who the man from the vision was. It'll be someone else's job to put the world back together. It'll be someone else's job to sort through all this death.

I'd prefer not to sort through all this death. Someone else would be better suited, anyway.

As soon as I'm able, I lift up my hand, and I let the mark's power arc to the rift. The demon shrieks as the pain starts in my skin, but I won't look at it, can't look at it, won't let it distract me.

 _Bring forth the sacrifice_.

If I'd been normal, if I'd been a real person, I would've been able to act sooner-or at all. I would've saved her, or died trying.

The pain hasn't dulled, but I don't hate it. In the last ten years, I've avoided pain, but I never hated it. I didn't hate anything.

I didn't hate it when the horde overran Ostagar. I didn't hate it when Logain betrayed the king. I didn't hate it when Uldred tore apart my home. I didn't hate it when I heard Jowan had been executed. I didn't hate it when the Archdemon burned my country to ash.

I didn't hate it when Cullen ran from me and my new state, or when my old friends stopped looking me in the eye. I didn't hate it when, much later, a few of the apprentices thought 'having fun' with one of the Tranquil would go unnoticed. I didn't hate it when the Templars caught us-and punished me more harshly than they did my abusers. I didn't hate it when the vote for independence came and I was nearly left behind in the Tower.

The hate sings in me, now. It's sweet and real and I  _need_ it.

The pride demon falls to its knees. Solas shouts at me, but I can't make out what he's saying over the roar of blood and life and magic in my ears. It's almost closed. I can feel it.

But I'm fading, too. I can't feel my feet or my knees or much of the rest of me. My vision tunnels.

But I keep my hand raised, and I keep pushing.

If I die closing this rift, it will be a good death.

* * *

When I open my eyes, the world is soft, painted in grays and faint blues.

Books float through the air, each ripe for plucking and reading and loving. Tables stretch before me, all of them empty of people, but full of quills and paper and pots of tea.

The teapots will be hot and full, all of them, stretching as far as the eye can see. The light that streams through stained glass windows is perfect for reading, I know, and each of the chairs at each of those endless tables will be an exact match for me, as comfortable as anything I've ever sat in.

I know this place better than any I've ever visited. I haven't seen it ten years, but the memory of it reverberates in me, like a metal tuning fork picking up sympathetic vibrations.

"Hello, little sparrow. I did miss you so."

I turn, and there's a woman standing behind me, red hair floating around her person in flyaway curls. Her sleepy blue eyes glow with their own light, and her mouth bears a sweet smile.

"Myrrha." My heart sinks. I know her face better than any other, too. It haunted even my earliest nightmares and my sweetest dreams. She whispered poems of rest to me when I was my most exhausted, my most hopeless.

 _Sloth_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)


	5. Spaces

Myrrha's full lips curve into a smile as I breathe her name. "You didn't forget me," she says.

"It's been ten years. Why haven't you found someone else to bother?" My voice finds its old cadence, here. In the Fade, in this place designed just for me, I feel like a whole person. It should be terrifying, because I shouldn't even really be talking to Myrrha-I probably shouldn't even know her name. But when the world seemed too big and too fast for little Aderyn Surana, apprentice mage, this place was always somewhere I could just be  _still_.

"I thought you were dead, little sparrow. I needed time to mourn." She floats past me to stand in front of a window, and her hair shimmers in the extra light. "It might've taken me longer to find you, but you're loud, now. I've heard rumors of people like you-cut off from us and then reattached. I makes you sing louder than the rest. But you're something extra, are you not? I head your walked among us in the flesh."

"How can you know about all of that?  _I've_  only known about it for a few hours."

"I can hear you chirping, even when you sleep. Especially when you sleep, really, and you've asleep for a good long while."

"I just want to rest, Myrrha. Couldn't you give me one night of rest?"

She tilts her head at me, and her hooded eyes alight with curiosity. "Isn't that what we do here, you and me? Rest?"

For a moment, all that I've been since I awoke in that cell buzzes through this safe space, my thoughts echoed in Myrrha's whispered tones.

" _Something wrong. Fear. Guilt. Magic at my fingers, holes in my memory, are you innocent? Are you an abomination? I was a corpse walking-I was better off before. Cullen is here. Rift is the key-I am the key. Booming voices. The hate sings as sweetly as the pain, carrying me to my good death."_

Her words fade slowly, shimmering in the air after she closes her mouth. And the stillness here, the peace, it rings through the air like a bell.

I should be fighting to get out. But Myrrah takes my hand and leads me to a pile of cushions and blankets in a corner made by two of those light-drenched windows.

"Myrrha, if you think I'm giving you my life when I've just gotten it back, you're wrong."

"But you've had it all along, little sparrow. That's why you need rest."

"I  _need_  to wake up."

"I know," she says. Her slim legs fold under her, and she tucks that wild hair behind a pointed ear. She keeps hold of my hand, my left hand, my marked hand that doesn't hurt here. "You call me demon, but I've never asked to take you. I don't want your life."

"I don't trust you," I say, but I settle beside her anyway, letting her porcelain-pale fingers pick through my dark hair. It spreads around us, silky and loose, with a few small braids pulled away from my face and joined at the back. That's how I used to wear it, back when beauty was as important as practicality-or perhaps when the pursuit of beauty seemed like its own manner of practical endeavor. I don't even remember if my hair is long enough for braiding right now in the real world.

"I know you don't trust me. But I want to help you anyway." She tucks my head under her chin, and I let myself curl beside her. The scent of rose hips floats around her hair, and I take a deep, steadying breath.

"I'm going to wake up. I want to wake up," I tell her, and the words feel more true than any I've spoken since I felt that first tendril of fear skittered across my skin.

"I know that, too, little sparrow. I know that, too."

She sings a soft melody as we lay there, and I let loose a subtle harmony of my own. In the real world, my throat is ill-practiced at speaking, let alone singing, but here I carry a tune as exactly as I ever did, and my voice knows just how to weave with hers.

Not for the first time, as I sit here tangled up with my demon, I think there might not be so much harm in just a little rest.

* * *

Light stings my eyes. Too bright. My whole body aches, from a steady pulse in my head to the tingling of my hands all the way to my throbbing feet. I shift to find my shoulder is a ball of bruises, and my hips crack as I force myself to sit up.

I'm alone in a little cabin-clean, but with simple furnishings. The glare of snow-reflected sun peaks through the window. I lift my left palm, and the mark glows as bright as ever. I lift my right palm, and a flame appears. Still marked. Still magical. Anxiety knots in my gut. Still feeling, too.

Somebody dressed me in a clean, wool nightgown while I slept, but I feel like I could bathe for hours. I roll my shoulders and stretch at the thought of long baths-such are the luxuries of having fire in your fingertips to reheat cold bathwater. I drag my fingers through my hair, and I find that it's greasy and full of knots-and nowhere near as long as it had been in my dreams. There's a mirror within arms reach, just atop a cabinet. I could reach out. I could really see myself for the first time in ten years, at least, as a person who cares how they look. Who cares  _who they are._

I don't care if my youthful glow is gone. I don't care if I finally grew into my ears, if my nose is crooked from the all times its been broken. I don't care if the lyrium brand sits crooked on my forehead or if it's the only thing anyone sees when they look at me.

I'm just drowning in this body that I don't recognize anymore, and if I can't even navigate my own skin, the world will certainly be too impossibly large to manage.

I creak my way out of bed, and my fingers find the wooden handle of the simple mirror. My hand shakes just a little as I look myself in the eye for the first time in years.

I don't know if I was expecting to find a stranger blinking back at me from the other side of the glass, but the person there is familiar. The Templars took me from my mother when I was very young, but something deep in me knows that I look like her, my dark eyes wide and haunted in a way that echoes distant memories of forgotten glances from a mother long gone. My nose, once a straight line from my prominent, elven brow, skews ever so slightly to the left, but that lyrium brand is perfectly, eerily centered. There's a large, barely healed cut on my forehead that I suspect will leave a scar, and the edge of it just barely nicks the edge of the sunburst. I'm older, sharper, more defined than I was at eighteen.

But I still have freckles. My jawline is still round, my mouth still narrow, my ears still just a tad too large and too sharp for my face. The other apprentices always teased me for those ears. I'm still that girl.

I'm still me.

 _Think of it like a long rest,_  Irving had said.

And I knew, even then, that he was wrong. All of the life lived in those ten years is etched into my skin as surely as it would have been if I'd felt it all. Because I've been me all along.

The first tears tumble down my cheeks unbidden. I put the mirror back where I found it and sit on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. Ragged sobs fill me and leave me, over and over, tumbling from my core into the world. I can't stop-I'm older now, I'm tired now, and I haven't had a chance to sit alone, just me, since I woke up.

I don't know where Cassandra is, or Cullen or Varric or Solas or Leliana or any of those glaring townspeople, but I have a feeling, right in this moment, that I have been gifted with this solitude by the Maker or some other god. Someone, somewhere, knew I needed a moment just to cry. It's a foreign sort of peace, because I never much bothered with all the absentee gods of Thedas. If they're really up there, if they're really watching, then nobody much remembered to help people like me.

Except for right now, that is, with my second chance at a real life and this beautiful, blessed solitude. Somebody is helping right now.

I'd been so afraid of crying at the Breach, but I needed this. Too many feelings were bottled beneath my skin, pressing against my bones. And now, just a little bit of that hurt can leave all in a flood of shallow breaths and more tears than I though a single person could hold.

And when I finally quiet, when I wipe the tears from my face, I close my eyes and take  _one, deep, breath._

The door opens on cue, and a tall, skinny elf tumbles into the room. I give her a shaky smile, even know my eyes are red and puffy from crying. She cries out, drops a box to the floor, and nearly falls over backwards.

"I-I didn't know you were awake, I swear!"

"Oh." Maybe I look worse than I thought.

She falls to her knees, and eyes trained firmly on the floor. "I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant."

I tilt my head at her, at a loss for words for once again.

"Y-you're back in Haven, my lady," she says slowly, peaking at my confused expression. My lady. Nobody has ever called me a lady, not once in my life. "They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days."

 _The Breach stopped growing._  Relief washes over me, but I'd feel better if the wording were different-because 'stopped growing' is not the same as 'has been completely obliterated, thank you very much.' I want to ask her about it, I want to know whether or not I'm headed for a trial, whether there are still demons to fight. But my clumsy tongue can't manage all that. So I start small. "I have been asleep for three days?"

"Y-yes, my lady."

"And people are happy with me?"

"I don't know. I just-L-lady Cassandra will want to know you've wakened. At once, she said. At once." The girl climbs off the ground and flees the room.

I suppose I could have waited for Cassandra to come to me. But there's a change of clothes and a sturdy coat across the room, and I pull them on instead. The fit is off-my hips are wider than most elves, and I'm a great deal shorter than most, too. But it feels good to dress myself. I pull my hair into a knot atop my head, and I think I might be presentable enough to slip through town and find Cassandra while also catching a glimpse of the Breach. Besides, sitting here and waiting for guidance seems like a particularly Tranquil thing to do.

So I stamp my feet into boots that are too narrow and adjust a coat that's too long, and I step out into the sun.

People line the streets of Haven, but none of them move. My heart pounds as I take one step, and then another. Any moment, one of these frozen people is going to stop me, drag me back to the dungeon, tell me I was a fool to leave my comfortable little hut.

But I keep walking, and still nobody moves.

My legs shake worse than a newborn fawn as they bow their heads and put their fists to their chests. Who are these people? Who do they think  _I_  am? I'm the elf who couldn't save their Divine. I'm the elf who couldn't seal their Breach.

Maybe Cassandra really is going to execute me. Maybe this is a solemn salute to a woman who tried and failed. But when I turn the corner and head up the hill, a child, no more than seven or eight, looks me straight in the eye.

"That's the Herald of Andraste," he says, and his mother smooths down his hair and tries to quiet him.

_The Herald of Andraste._

My mind separates from my body once more. The people of Haven certainly don't see the exhausted elf I saw in the mirror. Certainly not the headstrong girl I was before. Not the invisible Tranquil the world almost left behind.

My feet carry me shakily through the doors of the Chantry. A muffled argument floats through the candlelight and incense of Haven's grandest structure.

"Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried to by whoever becomes the Divine."

"I believe she is innocent," Cassandra answers.

"Besides-can you really hold a Tranquil mage accountable for crimes, even if she's guilty? They are compliant because we make them that way, Chancellor." Cullen chimes in, and my chest tightens. Cullen is here, and I'll have to look at him and I'll have to wonder which version of me he sees.  _If it would make you more comfortable…_

"Tranquil mages do not throw fire at demons."

"So we should hold her accountable for actions she could not control because she was healed later?"

"How do you know she wasn't healed long ago? Besides-you remember the White Spire,  _Knight-Captain_. She could be an abomination! She could be-"

I open the door with an assertive jerk-I'll not let them have this conversation about me without my participation any longer.

"I am not an abomination."

Inside, Cullen, Leliana, and Cassandra freeze at the sight of me, while the man who wants to ship me off to Val Royeaux for a public execution sputters, his mouth fighting for words.

"I was Tranquil until I woke up in the dungeon beneath this Chantry three days ago. I am not about to give into any murderous tendencies, and I would prefer to continue helping in anyway that I can."

The man-I met him before, on the bridge, but I'd been so numb I couldn't even pick up on his name. Chancellor something. Robert, maybe? Rodney? He just throws up his hands and groans turning to me.

"But you failed,  _elf_. The Breach is still in the sky, and yet you live."

 _Elf_. So small a thing, so dismissive. It says, ' _Whatever you just said, whoever you are, if I call attention to how pointy your ears are, I can remind everyone not to take you seriously.'_ How long had it been since I cared what people called me? Too long. I stand as tall as I can and put as much force behind my small, out-of-practice voice as I'm able. "I tried my hardest,  _shem_. Next time I'll be sure to die and deprive you of any way to close rifts at all."

"Let's not die, shall we?" Leliana says.

"Yes," Cassandra agrees. " _Have a care, Chancellor._  The Breach is not the only threat we face."

"Are we forgetting that she is our only suspect?"

"Only?" Cullen says. "Are we forgetting that there was an actual vision of events at the Breach, and it didn't implicate Aderyn?"

"So her survival-that thing on her hand-the sudden recovery of her magic-all coincidence?"

"Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour," Cassandra states, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.  _Providence._ My heart pounds, and I don't know who to look at or how to look at them. Glaring. I could start with that. Sent by the Maker? Tranquil elf mage with more unpacked emotional baggage than an abused pack mule? And yet...hadn't I just today felt that some higher power had blessed me with solitude?

"I don't know anything about providence," I object. That's terribly inadequate. What had the little boy say in the village?  _The Herald of Andraste._ If I were Andraste and I were choosing a herald, I would have picked someone that no one could mistake for a compliant laborer and that no one could dismiss with words like 'knife ears'-not to mention someone much better adjusted to ordinary emotions than I am.

"And yet, you were exactly what we needed at the Breach, no?" Leliana says. "You stopped it from growing, just when we had nearly lost all hope."

"Don't be ridiculous," the Chancellor says. My eyes twitch at his tone. I'm the ridiculous elf. I'm the mage who might be an abomination. I don't even want to be chosen by any deity at all, but I want the Chancellor to be wrong about every sentence he's ever uttered.  _I want._

I hold up my hand, letting the mark flash for a moment. I might have angled my palm  _just so_ , such that the Chancellor might get an eyeful of bright light. "Providence or no, I would like to help."

Cassandra's eyes light up at my words, and Leliana's face relaxes ever so slightly. Cullen just nods, like he always knew I'd want to help, like he knew it better than I did. Because a week ago, I would have simply preferred not to die.

"That is not for you to decide," the Chancellor says.

"No, it's for  _us_  to decide," Cassandra says, slamming a heavy tome onto the table. Her eyes shine with fire, and for a moment, I can see the Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast of living legend standing before me. This is a woman who served two Divines. Who slayed a dragon on the streets of Val Royeaux. Who knows what righteousness tastes like, and will not settle for less. "This is a writ from the Divine, granting her right and left hands the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn."

The Chancellor turns white as Cassandra moves toward him, backing him further and further towards the door. "We will close the Breach," she continues, "We will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval."

For a moment, I think Cassandra might physically throw him from the room. But just before that fire in her eyes turns to something more sinister, he turns to leave in a huff, slamming the door behind him. My eyes flit from Leliana to Cassandra to Cullen and back, and I don't know where to begin asking questions. I could start with this whole providence business-that should certainly be addressed. Little boys whispering about a 'Herald of Andraste' would be a nice follow up topic. Then I could ask who chose such a militant name for our cause. Perhaps ensure that nobody was going to lob my head off any time soon.

But Cullen shakes his head before I can say anything at all. He looks me in the eye and smiles. "And now we go to work, it seems," he says.

"Yes, work," I repeat. That should frighten me. Work. For the  _Inquisition_. It's a frightening word, one built on the blood of its enemies. But the Inquisition of old was also an endeavor that built something out of nothing, that forged a space for the Andraste and the Chantry where none existed before. And right here, right now, I can feel the very first tremors of a space in this world opening up just for me. I may never be the First Enchanter's apprentice again, but I can be the woman who fights demons and closes rifts. I can be comfortable here again, just as comfortable as I am in that corner of the Fade that Myrrha built just for me. Excitement starts to replace fear, and my skin buzzes with all the energy of the room. "But before we begin, I have an important question."

"What's on your mind?" Leliana asks.

"What was the Chancellor's name again?"

Leliana stifles a giggle, and Cassandra rolls her eyes with a smile. Cullen laughs, something rich and low and achingly familiar. I even manage a genuine grin of my own. The scent of history in the making permeates the room, but I am a woman who always liked a little laughter with her business. Our eyes, mine and my Templar's, find each other across all the pressure of destiny that hangs thick in the air. This time, I have something new to say:

_Do you see? I'm here. I'm me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)


	6. A Mage and a Half

The horse and I size each other up carefully. She's got big brown eyes, a speckled coat, and a mane that doesn't quite have that blow-majestically-in-the-wind quality that some finer horses might have. But she does have sense. I can tell, because she doesn't quite trust me.

"You look worried," Josephine, our lovely, newly appointed ambassador says. She's pacing in front of the stables as Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and I tack our horses. Or, in my case, while a groom tries very hard to teach me how to tack up my horse. "You don't have to be worried about this mission. By all accounts Mother Giselle is a very reasonable woman, and she did approach us. You just have to...put her at ease. You'll be fine. I'm sure you'll be fine."

"I think she might be worried that you're lying through your teeth right now, Ruffles," Varric calls. Somewhere they found a short, stocky horse to match his own stocky frame. I glance from my leggy mare to his shorter mount. I wonder if he would trade.

"I am aware that Josephine is concerned about my mannerisms. I have been practicing." I tilt my head, and the horse tilts with me. Maybe I should touch her. Pet her, put her at ease. Like a dog. I like dogs. I reach out my hand, but she takes a single step backwards, eyeing my hand like a mouse eyes a cat. I like both mice and cats better than horses.

"Considering your delivery just now, I'm not sure that's very encouraging," Varric says.

"What?" I say.

"Tch." Cassandra stalks from her glossy black mount to me, grabs my hand, and puts it on the straps of my horse's saddle. " _It's a horse_ , not an archdemon. Tighten the straps, or you'll fall off."

"It is much bigger than me," I murmur, but I tug the straps a notch tighter all the same. She doesn't turn around to bite me on the head. Which is good. Because she could. And she might.

"So are pride demons."

"But nobody is asking me to ride atop a pride demon."

Cassandra growls, pulling my hand from the straps to the top of the saddle. "Hand here," she says. "Left foot in the stirrup. Swing your right foot over. We practiced this."

"I didn't like it any better yesterday or the day before."

"Deal with it. We are not going to dawdle through the Hinterlands while demons kill villagers because the Herald of Andraste couldn't be bothered with a horse."

I scowl, and Solas shoots me a smug smile as he and his chestnut prance toward the road. I manage to get my foot in the stirrup and clamber over the saddle, but it's not the graceful swing that I've seen most of the soldiers and scouts manage. My horse huffs beneath me as I try to get my foot in the other stirrup.

"I could run all the way there. Perhaps Andraste will grant her Herald wings. And a winged dog. I'm Ferelden. I like dogs."

"Careful what you wish for," Solas says. "She might send you a griffon, and I have a feeling those are less docile than your average horse."

"I might be able convince everyone else to acknowledge the clear and present danger they pose, however."

"At least you sound less…" Josephine begins.

"Tranquil?" I provide. "I told you I have been practicing."

"Yes, well, it is very important that you don't give Mother Giselle a reason to question the intentions and viability of the Inquisition. We are restoring order, we are closing rifts, we are saving as many people as we can. We are not big and frightening and mysterious. We can be warm and personable. Yes? Yes."

"Yes," I confirm, though I'm not entirely sure I am so resolutely committed to the virtues of pleasant discourse as Josephine is. My eyes sweep the camps outside of Haven, full of gaunt faces and practicing soldiers. They're not looking for discourse-they just want to  _live_. And all they care about is the fact that my hand can close rifts, and there's something comforting about that. It's useful, and I prefer to be useful. I prefer to have a purpose.

Cullen is with them-he's been working tirelessly with what few soldiers we have for the several days I've spent in Haven. We haven't spoken much. I've been too afraid of the questions he might ask me-or the questions I might ask him.

 _How was Kinloch Hold?_ he might say. And I don't want to tell him about being Tranquil. I don't want him to know about me as the girl who couldn't fight back, the girl who stared at books and did as she was told.  _How was Kirkwall,_  I might ask back, and I don't want to know that either. I don't want to know about him as Knight Commander Meredith's second in command. I don't want to hear about all the hurt and hatred he carried out of Ferelden when he was so haunted by ghostly reflections of me. I'd rather stick with wordless glances. It's safer that way.

So my gaze slides up to the Breach. The mark flares hot against my palm as I watch it, but I keep my hand curled in a tight fist. All these people expect me to head into the great wide world to save it, but I'm still feeling too small for my saddle, let alone the title of 'Herald of Andraste.' It chafes around me, like ankles in boots made for a much bigger person.

"It's time to go, Herald," Cassandra says. "Josephine would not like me saying so, but we should be more worried about the fighting between mages and Templars than how to talk to Mother Giselle."

"Yes. I read the scout report." Open fighting. Dead refugees. Both sides deciding that killing and looting will lead to freedom or order. I'd rather sit in the mirror and practice my inflection than think about how many people I might know who are dead because of this. Or how many people I once knew who never lived to see the fighting at all.

* * *

For a full day, nothing very terrible happens. My horse and I reach a shaky truce, the air gets warmer, the sky gets brighter. The Breach disappears behind woods and mountains and the horizon. Nobody asks me how I'm doing, and Cassandra, Varric, and Solas have even gotten polite enough that they don't stare at my forehead for extended periods of time. I just listen to Varric chat with Solas, and then Varric tease Cassandra, and then Cassandra and Solas grumble about Varric in turn. It's nice not to be the one grumbled at. Or about. Or bothered at all.

So as we set out on our second day, I almost let myself believe that the road will still be clear by the time we rendezvous with our scouts tomorrow. That the reports are exaggerated. That people aren't using their newfound liberty to indiscriminately murder each other in the idyllic Hinterlands.

But I can hear the ring of heavy plate and the shouts of men on the road up ahead.

Inquisition scouts are quiet. Ordinary citizens don't wear nearly so much armor.  _Rogue Templars._  The words slip into my mind, sickly and unwelcome. I know too much about Templars who have abandoned their duty for their passions and idle fancies-and those who have taken their duties to their sickening extreme.

"Cassandra-" I call, but she just shakes her head and stops her horse. Solas, Varric, and I stop behind her.

"They may wish to talk," she says.

"Two of us are mages. With very obvious staves," I hiss.

"You are not rebels, and this is the road to Haven. They could be on their way to join the Inquisition."

"Unlikely," Solas says.

"Be that as it may, I will not slay potential allies because I didn't bother to ask where they were going or what they were doing."

And so we wait.

Five men in Templar plate appear at the bend in the road, swords and bows already in hand. They swagger, but it's an unsteady thing, their act fraying around the edges. Their shields and armor are dented, their faces dirty. One of them holds a pack-horse's reins-a sturdy sort of animal, one that might be at home at the head of a plow. Stolen, probably.

"Hold," Cassandra calls. She puts her hand on the pommel of her sword, and her sleek mount stands its ground. "We are agents of the Inquisition, and we mean you no harm."

The nearest one peers through his helm at me, and I can feel his eyes on my brand. I hold my fists tight to keep sparks from leaping into the air-he knows what I was, but he doesn't know what I am. I am the woman who can close rifts. I walked through the Fade and lived. I have magic buzzing beneath my skin.

But I wonder if that's my problem, now. I wonder if they'd let a Tranquil mage live. Except, it's more likely that they'd feel it a mercy to kill me out here, like putting down a dying dog. My gut turns at the thought of how many of the men and women I worked beside for ten years might have met similar fates on the road.

One of the Templars knocks an arrow. "Mages," he spits. "You got two of 'em. Well, one and a half, by the looks of it. What are you doing with them, Inquisition?"

"We are on our way to the Hinterlands. Our business is our own."

"Yeah? And keeping the world safe from people like them is our business. Seems to me like you and the dwarf are probably just the hired help for some rebel mages. Is the bald one a blood mage maybe? The Tranquil knife-ears his thrall?"

Solas' lip curls at the suggestion, and his hand shifts on his staff. My expression doesn't change-my muscles don't much remember how to respond to emotions anyway, and if they think I'm Tranquil, they won't be looking at me if the fighting starts.  _When_  the fighting starts. Except my skin crawls less at the suggestion I might be Solas' thrall, and more that this Templar looks at me and sees only half a person. That for ten years, I might have been only half a person.

"We are not part of the madness in the lands around Redcliffe," Cassandra continues, but one of the Templars knocks an arrow.

"Andraste's ass, Seeker," Varric growls. A crossbow bolt whizzes through the air and finds it's mark in the archer's face.

I open my palm, and lightning arcs toward one of the other Templars. I leave my staff strapped in my saddle-partially because I'm not sure I could get it out easily, but also because I'm not sure I'd be able to swing it without hitting my horse.

So I use my bare hands to release all the power screaming through my veins in the form of a fireball right at the one who called me half a person.

He falls, and I watch as Cassandra drives her sword through his neck. I sling another fireball and another and another, as though I could prove with all that power in my skin that I'm a real person-a  _whole_ person.

Varric wields Bianca with an ease few ever show with a weapon, and Solas might not have formal Circle training, but he certainly knows how to cast a spell. But it's Cassandra who makes quick work of them-she's a whirlwind of a woman, a force of nature, and she rides that horse like its legs are an extension of her own.

The clang of fighting fills my ears until my heart beats in time. An arrow whizzes past my shoulder once, and a sharp pain says it nicked my arm. But it's a shallow wound and an easy thing to ignore.

As quickly as it began, all the Templars fall. Their packhorse wickers nervously as Varric puts a cautionary crossbow bolt through one of their throats, and Solas swings off his own mount to comfort their animal.

My horse still shifts beneath me, and I try to dismount like I've practiced. But my legs are shaking, and the horse won't stand still, and my foot is caught in the stirrup, and I fall to the ground, flat on my back.

This would be an appropriate time to curse, I decide, though I can't think of anything to say. So I just give my leg one final jerk to free myself from the saddle once and for all, and lay on the ground as my horse takes a few wild steps away.

There's a dead Templar next to me.

I think I might have killed him.

Bootfalls come towards me, but I just squeeze my eyes shut and wish whoever it is would just leave me be, just let me lay here for a little while in the dirt next to the man I killed.

"Easy there, Herald," Varric says above me. I sigh and open my eyes slowly, and he stands over me with a hand outstretched.

I take it and let him help me off the ground. "So it's 'Herald,' now? Not 'it?'" I ask. If I talk about that, I won't be talking about the dead men around us. The others are all looking at me, but I leave my expression blank. Blank is better than whatever mix of emotions float beneath my skin.  _If we didn't kill them, they would've killed us,_  I insist silently.

"Yeah," he says. "It's Herald, now."

I peer at the dead man at my feet, his face burned at the edges by fire of my own making, and I remember all the charred corpses at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and all of the guilt that churned in my gut when I thought I'd killed them all.

But I didn't kill them all, and if I had, it would have been at the orders of someone else. I wouldn't have  _wanted_  to kill them, because I didn't  _want_  anything. But I wanted to kill these Templars. They were the first people I ever killed, and I did it because I  _wanted_  to. Or maybe because I had to. They would have killed us if we didn't kill them.  _Them or us._  That's how it is. It's not about wanting. I think. I hope.

"I am new at this. What do you do with people you kill on the road? Do you just leave them there? I...would prefer not to just leave them here."

"We will burn them," Cassandra says.

Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, and I whip my head around to see Solas with sadness in his eyes. Or maybe I just want to see sadness. Maybe I just want other people to be sad with me. Or am I sad at all? Do I want to be sad that these Templars are dead? Do I want to be sad that I killed them?

"I have never killed another person before," I say. "I was an eighteen year old apprentice, and then I was Tranquil. I have killed demons. But not people."

"I know," Solas says. And there's nothing more than that, no wisdom, no comfort. Just the knowledge that five Templars are dead, and the four of us are alive.

We arrange them in a row, and Solas keeps hold of their packhorse as Cassandra and I stand in front of them. And for a moment, I am almost Tranquil again, as hollowed out and emotionless as I've ever been.

When I hold out my hand, I almost expect that I won't find any magic, that I'll be the self I've been for ten years once more. That Andraste would have seen fit to take away my power-because now I am damaged. Unworthy.

But the flames respond to my call, and they lick at bodies stripped of their armor.

"Maker take you," I whisper.

* * *

The sun creeps low on the horizon as we continue down the road. Varric rides close to me, even though I wish he wouldn't.

"You all right, Herald?" Varric asks.

"I am alive."

"That's not what I asked."

"I am feeling a little bit like an 'it.' So you can go back to your old nickname."

"Look-" He sighs. "I'm not going to apologize for being cautious about abominations. In case you forgot, they're bad news. But you don't seem to be as blue around the edges as the last abomination I met, and Chuckles swears that you're you. Plus you have that handy, potentially world saving mark on your hand. So. I'm asking. You okay?"

I grit my teeth as I adjust my sleeve over my injured arm. I don't want to talk to "Why are you even here, Varric? You're not Cassandra's prisoner any longer. You could go back to Kirkwall, and whether or not I'm okay wouldn't be your problem at all."

"Considering you're probably the only one who can close these rifts, I think it's everyone's business whether or not you're okay."

"Fine. I am not feeling particularly 'okay.' I am feeling particularly empty."

"Well, that's probably better than feeling gleeful, or something, right? Empty is encouraging. Killing people and feeling bad about is a mark of good character."

"Ha ha. Your words have erased my guilt."

"Really? Because I thought I was a little weak on the delivery."

"Quiet, Varric," Cassandra calls over her shoulder. "Listen." She stops her horse, and the three of us stop behind her. For a moment, I can't hear anything, only the whisper of wind through tree branches.

But then something finds my straining ears- _rustling._

My first thought is more Templars. More death. More killing. Varric reaches for Bianca, and Solas reaches for his staff.

"Show yourselves and state your purpose!" Cassandra calls.

"Are we going to talk again?" Varric groans.

But I pray, even though I have never really prayed before, that whoever comes onto the road wants to talk as much as I do.

More rustling comes with hushed voices, and a tall, slim elven woman emerges from the brush with her hands up. Her leathers are dirty, but she's wearing Inquisition colors.

"Lady Cassandra-my Lady Herald," she says. "My name is Ritts, and I have been traveling with two mages who were running from some Templars."

All the tension in my shoulders melts at her words. No more killing, not today. "The Templars are dead, I think. It's all right," I say. "They can come out."

"Yes, my lady. Your worship. Um. This is Eldredda and Kinnon."

And out of the brush float two more people-first another elf, and then a tall, thin human man with dark hair and a cut over his eye. A human I know.

"Kinnon?" I breathe.

"Hello, Addie. I mean, Herald. Or whatever they're calling you now. They said it was you, but I hardly believed it." And there he is-dirty from crawling through the woods, but gloriously alive, a person a know, a person I studied with so very long ago. Who taught some of my classes when I was that small apprentice. Who survived Uldred and the Blight and the Uprising.

I laugh, joy bubbling out of me, even though we were never particularly close or even friendly. Just the thought that someone else made it through all of this is enough. His life is enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)


	7. A Precipice of Nothing and Everything

Sleep is a thing that happens on the ground these days.

I took first watch, but it's long past my shift and I should be snoring gently through the chilly nighttime. But Ritts and Eldredda are on watch together right now, and I can hear their flirtatious whispers, even if I can't make out the words.

I'm glad they've found something beautiful in all this dirt and cold and death. I'm glad we found them-and Kinnon. He looks older than I remember, but I expect that I look rather old these days, too. I think temples full of burned corpses and countrysides full of the dead will do that to a person.

But Kinnon is sleeping-I can hear him nearby, snoring even louder than Varric, which is rather loud indeed. Cassandra sleeps on the other side of me, in the same tent, nearly silent. Watching her is strange, perhaps, but there's something lovely in the curve of her mouth as she sleeps, softer than in the daytime. Her jaw and cheekbones are still hard edges, though, and even slumbering I wouldn't mistake her for anything but what she is: a warrior.

Eldredda giggles, and I close my eyes, trying to focus on my insistent heartbeat. If I listen closely, I can almost hear truths I've long forgotten. That I am alive. That I want to live. That there is a part of me that wants to laugh and cry and ache and love. That there is a part of me that's worth all the effort of laughing and crying and aching and loving.

And so I drift in and out of sleep, three times, maybe four. But eventually I open my eyes in a world of grays and blues, a faded library somewhere both deep in the Fade and close to my beating heart.

"Hello, Myrrha," I whisper into the candlelight and stained glass glow.

"Hello," my shimmering demon whispers in return.

"I killed a man today. More than one man." And she does not judge me, does not offer platitudes. She simply closes any distance between us and folds me in her arms. "I should feel guilty, I think. But mostly I feel nothing."

"No, little sparrow. You don't feel nothing-you're feeling everything right now. It's just that nothing and everything are closer together than people tend to remember."

"That's inconvenient."

"Perhaps it is."

"I have to wake up and be a hero tomorrow," I say, pulling away. "But all I can think about is what a terrible hero I would be."

Myrrha tilts her head and smiles at me. "There is so much light in you. Bright feelings. Anger, sorrow, confusion, all mingling with joy and love and righteousness. All of that bright light-that's what will make you a good hero. You just have to stop bottling it up."

"That sounds terrifying."

"Yes. That's why you need rest."

* * *

In the morning, Kinnon sits next to the remains of our fire, poking at embers. A deep ridge sits between his tight eyebrows, and he clenches his jaw in a hard line.

"I never thought I'd see you scowling ever again, but this is the exact expression you had every day during my early morning summoning class."

I let my face soften as I settle next to him and pull my leather coat tighter around myself. "I almost thought I'd never see anyone from Kinloch Hold do anything ever again. It's good to see you, Kinnon, even though you taught my least favorite subject at my least favorite time of day."

"Ha, well, you'll get to see more soon enough, I expect. There are a few of us from Ferelden's Circle still in Redcliffe. Irving was doing well, last I saw him."

"Oh." The last time I saw Irving, he was too frail to make the march to the Conclave-he'd contracted some kind of wasting illness nearly a year ago. I've been avoiding thinking about him, and guilt twists in me for doing so. He was my mentor for my entire apprenticeship, and I was so young when my magic had manifested that he might as well have been my father. But the real last time I saw Irving feels like it was a decade ago, just before my Rite. Because in ten years, I'm fairly certain Irving and I haven't made eye contact even once, despite living in the same building for nearly all of that time.

"I can't imagine how happy he'll be to see you whole again."

"Right. Yes. Whole." I grab a nearby twig and tear off a piece, tossing it into the fire. That guilt for not thinking of him mingles with anger in my chest. Anger that he let Greagoir make me Tranquil. That he stood by and watched. That he called it "rest" and then abandoned me as soon as it was done. He never once lifted a finger to protect me, not even when those boys put hands on me that I couldn't possibly want. Not even when the Templars publicly whipped me for the crime of being the compliant person they made me, for respecting a mage's commands over Templar rules.

And I didn't even care. Not about the rape or the punishment or about Irving's avoidance. But now. Now all the cares in the world sit in a tight knot in my gut, and I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to untangle them-or if I'll ever want to.

My fingers itch to reach around to my back, to trace the scars left behind because Irving didn't protect me. Because he couldn't or wouldn't save me from the brand on my forehead.

The only father I've ever known is dying slowly somewhere nearby, and all I can think about is how much I hate him.

"I...I guess maybe whole is the wrong word. I knew a lot of people at that Conclave. Petra was…" Kinnon says softly. He rakes his fingers through his hair and lifts his eyes to the sky towards Haven and the Breach. "I guess what I'm saying is we're all a little broken these days."

"I'm sorry," I begin, but I can't find the words for the rest. I want to say that I'm sorry for Petra and the others, the people from Ferelden's Circle that brought me to the Conclave. I'm sorry I lived and they died. I'm sorry that an accident or fate or Andraste chose me over them. But if I say those words out loud, the same ones I've been bottling up since I woke up in Haven's dungeon, I'm pretty sure the truth in them would put deep cracks in this fragile new me.  _I'm sorry that I'm alive_. I push that thought back into the tangled knot of my emotions.

"I'm sorry I was so sour in your summoning lessons," I finish instead.

"Don't be. Everyone there was sour." And he smiles, eyes wrinkling at the corners. "Whoever thought it was a good idea to assign such a tedious lesson to fifteen year olds right after breakfast was an idiot."

"I'm pretty sure that was you."

"Yes, well, I was young and idiotic."

"Not as idiotic as me-I let my friend convince me that he was certainly not a blood mage. Then I broke into the phylactery chamber, smashed his to bits, and let him escape to Redcliffe, where he promptly poisoned an Arl and triggered the slaughter of a castle full of people. And if you think about it, it all came full circle. Because if Arl Eamon had never been poisoned, the Hero of Ferelden never would have found the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and nobody would have ever blown it up. So don't feel bad about your early morning summonings. I triggered events that broke the world."

"None of this is your fault, Aderyn. You have to know that."

"Well, I have fix, at any rate. Or try." I flash the mark at him, always glowing just a little against my palm.

"I'll help, if you'll have me."

"Is that why you left Redcliffe? To try to find a way to help?"

Kinnon laughs, and shakes his head. "Nothing so heroic. I was Eldredda's mentor. Girl is only sixteen, and she decided that 'freedom' didn't mean much if we were just going to hole up in Redcliffe forever. Made her escape in the dark of night, and I found her naked in a cave with your Inquisition scout."

"Oh." I laugh softly, my eyes searching for the pair of elves across camp. Ritts' hands, tanned and freckled, twine with Eldredda's pale fingers, her lips teasing against her lover's cheek. Eldredda wears a little smirk across her doll-perfect features. "She seems happy, at least."

"The thing is, I don't think she was unhappy in the Tower. She's good, Addie. That girl has a lot of power, and she might've been First Enchanter someday. She could've had a good life in the Circle."

"People used to say I might be First Enchanter someday, too, you know."

"I know it was an imperfect world, but at least we weren't killing each other on sight."

"Imperfect is a mild word." A thousand emotions grapple with each other in my chest. That imperfect world was the one that crippled me before I turned twenty. The world that made me infinitely suggestible. That locked me away in my own skin. That let both sides of an ancient power struggle ignore me and abuse me in turn. It was the world that forged a willing slave out of me and then treated me as though I were nothing because of it. Imperfect is not the word I would have chosen.

"Addie-I'm sorry. I know you-"

"I know you know." I look away from him to keep from glaring or crying or shouting or all three at once. Because Kinnon does know. He was there for all of it, for every helpless moment of the last ten years of my life. And the fact that he can still call the Circle  _imperfect_ , that he can still think of me and people like me as acceptable forms of collateral damage...my jaw aches from clenching, and the tang of blood tickles my tongue as I bite my cheek. "I would prefer not to speak of this right now. We have a long day."

"I really am sorry. I just-"

"No," I say. "I was serious. I truly would prefer not to speak of this at all."

I rise from the ground and move toward the horses and Cassandra, because I would rather be saddling a massive four-legged beast than debating the merits of the system of control and protection that had failed me so utterly.

Cassandra has her horse ready for the day, and she's started with Varric's as well. All the softness I saw in her mouth in the moonlight is gone, but there's a hard-edged serenity to the way she looks at the horses. I have never known another person who radiated so much focus or determination as Cassandra Pentaghast.

She glances at me as I try to navigate my dappled gray's bridle. "You look tense."

"I feel wonderful."

"I'm glad to see you can still lie," she says, grabbing the bridle from my hands and helping me put it over my horse's head. "I know Josephine was very worried about your mannerisms, but I think you'll do very well today."

"Right. Mother Giselle." I hadn't thought about her all morning-which is probably a sign that Josephine is completely correct and I am not at all an appropriate person to be handling any diplomatic matters. "What changed your mind? Two days ago you didn't seem nearly as confident."

"You did," she says, as though it were the most natural response in the world. "Yesterday you could have relished the idea of killing those Templars. You could have seen it as revenge. But you didn't. You didn't enjoy the killing, but you didn't let your guilt over it consume you, either. That shows strength-and kindness. Andraste chose you well."

"T-thank you," I stammer. I've been careful not bring up my doubts about being 'The Herald of Andraste.' Or about the existence of an Andraste who is more than simply a very remarkable woman, about her ability to choose anyone for anything. Because if Andraste is keeping watch over our absent Maker's children, she hasn't kept terribly good watch over me. But doubts aside, I can hear the sincerity in Cassandra's voice, and for a moment, her faith in me might be enough to drown out all the turmoil I've been trying to keep at bay.

"Thank me when I manage to teach you to properly ride a horse." Cassandra puts my hands on my horse's saddle straps, and I tighten them as much as I can. The horse huffs and shifts its feet, and it takes everything I have not to jump out of my skin.

"I'm still waiting for Andraste to grant me those wings. Or a mabari. I would ride atop a giant mabari."

"Maker, you have one civil conversation with Varric, and suddenly you're cracking jokes. Come on. Let's gather the others before you have a chat with Solas and start telling stories about all the interesting places you've taken naps."

"Glibness, Lady Cassandra, does you no credit."

She shakes her head, but there's a hint of a smile there, and I wear a hint of a smile, too. Because if I'm smiling, if I'm joking with Cassandra, I'm not thinking about my years of Tranquility. I'm not thinking about the hole in the sky. I'm not thinking about the men I killed yesterday, the men who might have had families-or all the men and women with families that have died in this valley in the last months.

 _Humor_. I remember humor. It's the weapon I used to wield when I needed to hide.

* * *

Swords clang against staff blades. Shields crack against bones. Lightning crackles in the air, the air that reeks of death and hate and chaos.

And I'm in the middle of it all, throwing fireballs of my own, my throat raw from screaming with Cassandra and Varric and Solas and Kinnon and Eldredda and Ritts. We were screaming for them to stop, to leave, to at least take the fighting away from so many refugees. To see us as something other than their enemies-but both sides attacked us with equally uncaring fervor.

Eldredda stands behind me, casting spells with all the quick precision of a top student of Kinloch Hold, but her massive blue eyes glow with terror as Templars and mages fall around us. The self-assured, smirking girl from camp is gone, and now she's just this little thing, quaking behind me.

Just after my Rite, I volunteered to accompany the mages sent to Ostagar-I'd preferred to be useful. And while I was there, I so clearly remember being puzzled by a young human girl all dressed up in a grown woman's armor. She talked to me for awhile, mostly to have a person to talk to, I think, and I had just recently become a very good listener. But when she told me she was a soldier, and I couldn't understand that, because she was a child and soldiers were adults.

Eldredda reminds me so much of that girl just now, still a child but all dressed up for soldiering. And with her, unlike that girl from so long ago, I  _want_  to protect her. I  _can_  protect her. I have the power in my fingertips to keep her alive.

The last of the Templars falls to an arrow in the neck, and a thick quiet falls over the crossroads. Eldredda quivers behind me, and Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and Kinnon scatter to check on the wounded.

Not Ritts, though. She must be nearly as young as Eldredda, but she wears a snarl on her tanned face. She stalks over to that last Templar and pulls an arrow out of his neck with a sick squelch.

Eldredda winces, and then glances at a cut on her arm, hands shaking as she parts the torn sleeve of her robes.

"Here, let me look at that for you," I offer, and she nods. I take her arm-the cut is long but shallow, nothing serious. "We'll find you a bandage and you'll be fine, all right?"

"Y-yes," she says. "I mean-I knew that. It doesn't hurt that badly. It's not a problem." She straightens to her full, lanky height, and her jaw sets with determination. She looks up, though, up towards rooftop and treetops and away from the bodies on the ground.

"I didn't think it would be this bad out here, either," I murmur.

"I must have known some of these people. Or maybe not these people specifically, but people like them, running through the wilderness killing everyone they see."

"I know the feeling."

She nods, taking a sharp breath. "You know, when I left Redcliffe, I thought I was leaving to discover the world. I told myself, Eldredda, this is your opportunity to have an adventure. I was so focused on my studies in the Tower, and when the Circle dissolved, I thought, what was it all for? None of the things I'd been working towards mattered anymore. None of them turned out to be real. But this…"

"This is real, but it's not the only thing that's real. You found Ritts, too. You're finding your way."

"Yes, I suppose I am." She nods and straightens her blonde braid, her eyes finally taking in the scene in front of us. "Don't tell Kinnon I ever had any doubts, all right? He'll try to drag me back to Redcliffe."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I promise.

Eldredda walks tall toward Ritts, putting a hand on the small of her lover's back. Ritts gives her a quick kiss before taking a look at Eldredda's arm.

I turn towards a cluster of men and women on stretchers, with a pair of nervous mages plucking at their worn robes, dirtier than far than they'd ever have been in the Tower. A Chantry priest kneels beside a man with a bloody bandage on his side, his hand shaking beside him. Pain digs deep grooves into his face, but the priest wears a serene expression that speaks of compassion rather than emptiness.

"There are mages here who can heal your wounds," she says, her accented voice lilting and calm. "Lie still."

"D-don't let them touch me, Mother. Their magic is-"

"Turned to noble purpose. Their magic is surely no more evil than your blade." The soldier grunts as he flinches away from the mage's staff, but the priest only places her hand atop the soldiers. "Hush, dear boy. Allow them to ease your suffering."

The soldier meets her eye and nods, and when the mage approaches again, he doesn't protest. Warm light shimmers from the top of the staff, and when the mage moves aside the bandage and presses it to the soldier's wound, skin knits together, and pain flees from the his face. The light skitters across his skin and armor, and he sighs with it. And when the priest pulls her hand away, it's not shaking anymore.

"Th-thank you, Mother," the soldier breathes.

"You should thank Enchanter Loras," she says, but he just closes his eyes and the mage moves to the next bed without gratitude.

"Mother Giselle?" I ask, and she stands to turn that serene expression towards me.

"I am. And you must be the one they are calling 'The Herald of Andraste.'"

"Yes."

She guides me away from the wounded, and and I can feel her eyes all over me-on my staff, on my marked hand, on my Inquisition-made leathers, on the point of my ears...and especially on the lyrium branded on my forehead.

"I had heard you were one of the Tranquil, though I'm not sure I believed it."

I shift uncomfortably at the comment. Someday I'll be able to talk about it. Someday I'll be comfortable with that thing on my forehead. Someday I'll have something coherent to say about my feelings on the matter. Today, my mind slides around the issue, and I just shake my head. "I'm not Tranquil any longer."

"True. By the grace of the Maker, you have a light in your eyes. I wanted to see it for myself."

I glance around at the refugees milling around the road that was so recently a battlefield. "I confess that I do not know why you wanted me to come here, Revered Mother."  _Except so you could stare at my forehead, at least._

"I know of the Chantry's denouncement of you, and I am familiar with those behind it. I will not lie to you-some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the new divine. Some are simply terrified. So many good people, senselessly taken from us."

"And you want to help? Against the Chantry's wishes?"

"With no Divine, we are left to follow our own consciences, and mine tells me this: the Breach must be closed. And the Maker has sent you to do the closing." She walks slowly through the camp, and eyes follow us as we move. I wonder how many of these people believe I was chosen. That I have a destiny. That their God would take everything from a person only to give it back ten years later-plus a pesky destiny-and ask them to save the world.

"Do you really believe that? That I was chosen? That Andraste pushed me from the Fade and now I'm here to save Thedas?"

"I do not know about saving Thedas," she says, and her serenity slips for just a moment as her eyes find refugee after refugee. "But I  _hope_. And I believe the Maker has a path for all of us. It is not an accident that you should have that mark upon your hand." She watches me for a moment, and I wonder if she can see my skepticism. Josephine told me in no uncertain terms to seems confident. Humble. Devout. Though, I'm still not sure how believing that you're chosen by the bride of the Maker and being truly humble can coexist. "Tell me, child. What do  _you_  believe?" Mother Giselle says eventually.

"I believe the Breach must be closed, and if I can help with that, I have to do it in any way I can."

"And where does the Maker fall in your beliefs?"

I take a deep breath and stare at my hands. There's blood under my nails from the fighting earlier. I can still count the number of people I've killed on my fingers, but I'm pretty sure that won't be true for very long. And we're all fighting and dying over the collapse of a system built in the Maker's name, one I would have given my life to dismantle had I been able. "I think the Maker is far away. Even the Chantry agrees with that," I answer. It's not a lie.

"They will no doubt be glad to hear you agree on something," Mother Giselle says with a smile. "I will go to Haven, and I would advise you to go to Val Royeaux. And perhaps if you can bring a little peace to the Hinterlands first, you can go and meet the remaining Mothers one the wings of tales less fearsome than those they already know."

I glance toward Ritts and Eldredda, but especially Eldredda, whose magic and strength felt so fragile during the fighting. I can't see her face from here, but can read the curve of her shoulders and the hang of her head. I look to the healers moving between wounded men, and the hollow faced refugees putting sheets over their dead.

"I'm just the one with the glowing hand," I say. "I point it at rifts, and they close. If you're looking for a peace maker, you should talk to Cassandra."

"Andraste did not put that mark on Lady Cassandra's hand. She put it on  _yours_."

I'm not entirely sure what to make of that. I just nod, and after a moment, Mother Giselle walks away. She moves towards a family trying to turn over an upended cart, and I watch as she rolls up her sleeves to help them right it.

I could still walk away or hide. I could still just be the weapon wielded by the Inquisition. I could just point my hands a rifts. But my mind strays to the people of Haven, lined up in the streets in near silence, watching in awe as I took tentative steps toward the Chantry. Mother Giselle is right-this mark has power over more than just the rifts.

I stand on a strange precipice, one between the nothingness of Tranquility and everything beyond. For so long I have been a breathing, pliable tool, something that Templars and mages alike could use for their own purpose. And I could continue being just that, just a walking closer of rifts. And that would not be a bad life, I think. It would be small and empty and safe.

Cassandra walks towards me, back straight and hand on the pommel of her sword. She meets my eyes and says, "What should we do?"

_What should we do._

Lady Cassandra Pentaghast wants to know from  _me_  how we should proceed. I could shake my head and remain quiet, Tranquil, and let her find our course. But instead I lift my chin, and just like that, I leap off the precipice in favor of a larger destiny. "How soon can we get Cullen here with enough soldiers to clear out the rogue mages and Templars?"

A smile kisses Cassandra's sharp mouth. "Not long at all."

"Then let's get it done."

She stands at my side, and for a moment my heart swells in my chest. I'm less hollow than I was a moment ago. I'm more alive. And even though I don't believe in such things, I can almost feel a presence in my body, as though Andraste were really with me, as though she  _approves_.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)


	8. To Calm a Countryside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I disappeared for awhile, but I have a few chapters to dump all at once! I'll try to be a little more consistent with my posting for the next while :) Thanks for reading!
> 
> Find me on tumblr! I'd love to be pals
> 
> [ joriesilver.tumblr.com ](https://joriesilver.tumblr.com/)

The rift screams.

My mark reaches out to meet it, sending pain through my arm to my shoulder, tendrils of hurt skittering through my bones to my most distant extremities.

I love these moments, when it's just me and a rift, this tangible thing, this task I can perform.

The fighting around me is over. The last of the demons are dead. I know that Solas and Varric and Ritts are watching me. I can sense them, but I can't see them-I see only green light, only this closing tear in a torn up world. And as it knits itself back together, I can almost imagine that my frayed edges are repairing themselves, too. With each rift closed, each life saved, each hole into the unending chasm of the Fade erased, I can almost feel like windows into my last ten years are closing, too.

I savor it, sweetly, like a cake held in the mouth for some extra, stolen moment.

And then it's gone.

My previously steady heartbeat quickens, and the pain shifts into something stabbing and uncomfortable. I take a deep, shaky breath, all of my steady certainty gone with the rift. I stretch my hollowed out hand, and my legs waver as I take a few steps away from the old tear.

"Are...are you all right, your worship?" Ritts asks. Her tanned brow wrinkles with concern as I regain my balance in the world outside my solitary struggle against the rift.

"I am fine. Your concern is unnecessary." Those words come easy to my lips, but Varric and Ritts wince in unison at the flat cadence of my voice. Even Solas' eye gives a little twitch.  _Come on, Addie. Look alive. You can do better than that._  "Hurts like a bitch, though," I add with a grin, and at least Ritts and Varric relax.

Solas moves closer as we start to walk away. The ruins of some old tower loom around us, and the sun hangs low against the horizon. We're not far from camp. Finally. That was third rift of the day, and my spinning head is starting to make me think that three is two rifts too many for one day. Solas watches me as I lean just a little too much on my staff.

"Does it often trouble you?" he asks.

"I do not think 'trouble' is the right word."

"I'm talking about the pain." His voice is soft, and his eyes find mine in the waning daylight. My mind searches for whatever reaction he could want from me, but I don't know what he's fishing for. For the show of strength I'd give to Cassandra? For the joke I'd give to Varric or Ritts? For the gentle assurances I'd give to Kinnon or Eldredda?

"Pain is pain. It is just a feeling." I keep walking, and he keeps pace, watching me. But I don't know what he  _wants._  "I am good at ignoring pain, Solas. And I cannot let the world fall to pieces because my hand hurts."

"I simply wanted to check on the mark. Three rifts in one day is a lot."

"Yes."

"Too many, perhaps? You don't want to put undue strain-"

"I am fine, Solas." I insist. My wobbling legs carry me a few more steps before I nearly trip on a tree root. Solas catches my elbow before I fall, and I curse softly as he helps me steady myself.

"Are you certain? I know some meditation techniques that might help you."

"That isn't necessary."

"Ma nuvenin," he says, though for a moment he looks as though he might argue. "Do feel free to come to me, lethallan. With our combined knowledge, perhaps we lessen the adverse effects of closing a rift."

"Ma serannas, lethallin, but I am fine," I reply as we scale the hill leading to camp. I don't speak much elven, but when I was about thirteen I learned as much as I could from books in the Tower's library. I pestered Jowan with it constantly, stringing together clumsy sentences with my thin vocabulary, enjoying the rise and fall of it as it slipped from my tongue. Jowan hated it. Jowan who is dead now. Jowan who was executed when I was too numb to care.

A shiver creeps over me. Now isn't the time for mourning my oldest friend. But the other thoughts in my head have to do with Solas' offer, and the truth is that I  _want_  the pain. I don't want to dull anything. I want to feel it  _all_.

"Oy! Lady Herald!" Ritts calls. When I look to her and Varric up ahead, I cringe at the smirk on Varric's face. "Tethras here says the reason you don't ever drink with us is you can't hold your liquor."

"Not too loud!" Varric calls even louder. "Andraste will hear you, and then where will we be? She can't have a prophet that doesn't drink."

Solas chuckles beside me, and I try not to roll my eyes as I join them up on the hilltop. The area is lined with tightly spaced tents, with dozens of soldiers and scouts lounging and working and resting between them. The clang of metal against metal rings across camp as a few men spar nearby, and the sun's low rays cast long shadows all around.

Before I can break the news to Ritts that Varric is very right-I cannot, in any way, hold my liquor-Cullen catches my eye from outside his tent.

Commander Cullen Rutherford doesn't stand like the Templar I once knew. He used to be stiff and awkward-at least around me. He still stands straight, yes, but there's an ease in him that I don't recognize. His armor is a part of him, now, and command rests naturally in his posture.

He angles his chin in my direction, and I nod confirmation- _yes, I am coming. No, I won't bring Varric or Solas. Yes, making plans with you and Cassandra is precisely what I want to be doing just now._

"I fear I must report to our Commander. Perhaps another night you can watch me get horribly drunk."

"Promises, promises, your Worshipfullness," Varric says, and Ritts giggles.

I roll my eyes for their benefit, but I smile, too. "Good work today, you two. I'd be dead in the woods without you."

"Right heroes, we are," Ritts says, punching Varric in the arm. "Your Worship," she adds.

Solas shakes his head as I walk away, and a smile stays on my lips as I move across camp. It almost feels normal that people stare at me, now. It almost feels normal to make jokes with Ritts and Varric.  _I_  almost feel normal, or at least settled in this this bizarre world where I'm symbol of hope and slayer of demons instead of a Tranquil mage hovering over old books.

Cullen's tent is where our makeshift war table lives. That's what he and Cassandra keep calling it, at least. A war table. I don't know if some Templars and mages killing each other in the woods can properly be called a "war."

Cullen and Cassandra stand inside, a lamp already burning, though waning daylight still streams through the fabric of the tent.

"That rift near camp is gone. You can send people down the hill that way now," I say, and Cassandra's shoulders loosen as she moves one of the wooden diamonds we've been using to mark the rifts away from the ruined tower.

"Thank the Maker. Some of the more idiotic scouts were starting to talk about throwing rocks at it. For fun, apparently."

I try to picture people being comfortable enough with a rift to play games with it, and I can't. Then I try to picture a demon being pelted with a rock. The scenario doesn't end well for the idiotic scout.

"It will be easier to send soldiers into the valley now, at any rate," Cullen says. Cassandra nods, her eyes trained on the map before her. Cullen isn't looking at the pieces, though. His eyes find mine in the dim light, and I hope I don't look too exhausted. I hope he can't read the pain in my eyes, can't see the quiver of my knees.  _Can you go with them?_  he's asking.  _Are you all right?_

"We should move tomorrow," I say. "If we can take the valley, set up in Fort Connor, we can move one group through to the Templar camp, and one to the mages in the Witchwood. End this quickly."

"There are still rifts here and here," Cassandra says, pointing. "We can't send our people through an endless stream of demons, and we can't risk sending you at the head of an army. You'll be too visible."

"There aren't rifts there," I say. "Not anymore, at any rate." Echoes of that screaming pain pulse through my palm, but I push down the memory.

"You closed three rifts? Today?" Cassandra says, for the first time looking up from the table and at me, really  _at_  me. Her surprise is plain, but there's nothing in her gaze that says she can really tell how much I'm struggling just to stand just now.

"Yes."

"Good. That's very good news," Cassandra says. "Perhaps we can move tomorrow. And Fort Connor would be a good place to launch from-it's between both strongholds, we could control the area where the fighting has been worst, let refugees safely cross from the crossroads and into the western farmlands."

"If you need to stay behind and meet us at Fort Connor-" Cullen begins, but I shake my head.

"I am fine."

"Then we can start to alert the men," Cassandra says. The determination in her eyes is plain-she's that woman on fire again, the one who moves through battles like a whirlwind, the one that fights more naturally than any person I have ever met. I wish that Cullen would have that for a moment. I wish that his eyes wouldn't linger on my hand, white-knuckled around my staff, clinging to the support. The pain is growing again, spreading in steady pulses up my arm.

Three rifts in one day is too many.

"Good. I'm just going to…" I begin, searching for an excuse to get away from Cullen and his searching eyes. "I'm just going to go see if I can't find something to eat."  _And sit down and maybe never stand up again. That too._

Cassandra just waves me off, and I slip out of the tent. I have to get away-the pain is getting worse, far worse, worse than when I'm standing at the rifts, worse than when I'm staring the Fade in the eye, worse than I can handle. I don't go toward the fire, where I know someone will give me something to eat. Instead I stagger away through tents, praying to whatever deity chose me that no one will see me.

There's a little outcropping nearby, sheltered from view. I sink to the ground in the bushes, wincing as I stretch open my left hand, my marked hand. Green light burns into the evening, sickly and twisted and  _hurting_. I stretch my legs forward into the dirt, and I let my staff fall beside me.

No one can see me like this. No one can know. But it's fine, because I'm me, and this is how I've always been. Don't let them see you sweat. Don't let them see you struggle. As far as anyone outside of myself has ever been concerned, everything has always come easily to me. Naturally. I am a natural. Nobody needs to worry about Aderyn Surana-she's  _fine_. She's better than fine-she's amazing, she's wonderful, she's flying high above the world and all its struggles and obstacles and hardships.

Perhaps that's why I was chosen-because I have always, even before I was Tranquil, even before my emotions were locked away, been able to seem graceful, gliding, wonderful. And if you need a symbol of hope, nobody can see it  _hurt._

Andraste's tits, but it  _hurts._

"Aderyn?"

I don't open my eyes, though I'm not sure when I closed them. The voice isn't real. It can't be real. Nobody can see me like this. The sound is far away, anyway, my name a phantom of an utterance behind all the ringing in my ears.

Warm fingers brush the open palm of my shining hand.

It's not real.

Nobody has ever touched my hand like that, gently, behind rough calluses. Nobody  _would_. Who would want to? Who would need to? I am Aderyn Surana, and even when I had the capacity for weakness, I didn't show it. Never. No one has ever seen me hurt. Except maybe Jowan, once or twice, and Jowan has been dead and gone for ten years. Besides, his hands were never as warm or callused or gentle as the ones that take mine now, that shelter my shaking fingers.

" _Aderyn_." The voice is frightened now, concerned. Nobody talks to me like that. It can't be real.

But I open my eyes anyway, and my heart sinks and soars at once. Cullen Rutherford, my Templar, my distant admirer that I once so admired...he kneels beside me, shadows from tree branches and bushes criss-crossing his face. But all the fresh moonlight of the young night seems to pool in his amber eyes, illuminating his fear in the growing darkness.

"Oh," I say. I snatch my hand away, cursing myself for my momentary weakness, for my denial, for love the soft touch of his skin against mine.

"Let me get you to a healer. I can get Solas, we can-"

"No." The word comes sharp and steady. It's bad enough that Cullen is seeing me this way, let alone a healer or Solas or anyone else. "No, I am fine."

But those fearful, moonlight filled eyes don't believe my words. They believe  _my_  eyes, and my eyes can't say anything but  _help me, I'm hurting,_  just now. "Just sit with me. Please. Leave Everyone else out of this. Just...please."

And he nods, his eyes still intent on mine as he settles beside me. So much of our friendship has occurred in the space between our gazes. What words could we say in the Tower? Templars and mages were hardly encouraged to be friendly. I couldn't jeopardize my future for something so small as blushing moments with a lovely Templar boy.

But here, in this moment, with our eyes locked in the twilight, we can finally speak.

"I didn't know it still hurt you," Cullen says. "Last time-at the Breach. When you...nobody knew if you would ever wake up."

"This isn't like that. I am fine."

"Are you sure?" His voice softens almost to a whisper, and my heart aches at the deep-toned worry in his words.

"Cullen, I'm not sure of very much just now. But I know I am fine. Or I will be. I just need to sit for a moment."

"Saying that you're fine over and over doesn't make it true."

"It has been therapeutic, though." I smile, and I'm not even lying. The pain has lost its edge, and I take a deep breath, drawing my knees toward my chest. "I am feeling better."

"Good."

"You must be busy. You can…" I begin to tell him he can go, but I don't want to send him away. I want him to sit right here beside me until I'm ready to stand up again. "No. I would prefer-I  _want_. I want you to stay. Or-you don't  _have_ to. I...I just...you can go if you have things you need to do. Or want to do. I'll be fine, you don't have to worry about me. But...Maker, I really forgot how to talk, didn't I?"

Cullen's mouth pulls into a smile. "Talking was never really our thing, was it?"

"Not in the slightest," I say, the echo of old grins touching my lips, too. "For a long time, I thought you had a stutter. A real, true stutter."

"Sweet Maker, that's embarrassing."

"I thought it was endearing. I was a little disappointed when I found out I just made you nervous."

"And you were never nervous."

Except that's wrong. I was terrified, all the time. Of Templars and demons and loneliness and the simple notion that Tower would be my  _whole world_  until the day I died. I was always running from that terror, always working harder to be better and smarter than everyone else. For if I could've become the best mage in all of Ferelden, I could have conquered my prison, ruled from a jail cell, like Irving before me. And if I could have done that, then maybe, just maybe, those walls would have seemed less confining.

That's a lot of words. A lot of truth. And I've just proven that my tongue still trips over itself when I'm trying to speak my mind.

"I was nervous. I was just better at hiding it than you." Small words. Small truths. That's all I can trade in.

"Oh good. That's less embarrassing for me, at least. I think." His eyes flicker across my face, and he doesn't linger on my brand. He catches instead on my eyes and my mouth and the freckles on my nose, and I hope that he sees  _me_ , the girl he knew and the woman he's coming to know.

And then, we just sit in the growing darkness until I'm ready to stand. Stars appear one by one and then all at once, and for those few, stolen moments, I almost don't care that he saw me in such pain. I'm almost grateful to share this space with someone. Maybe I need that. Maybe I need  _him_.

But it's hard to think about needing people right now. I'm too mixed up. I'm trying to find my footing with him at the front of an army. Or more than an army. A revolution. A  _movement_. There are people to inspire. There's a war to fight. And so, when he eventually walks back to camp by my side, our eyes meet for the last time that night. And I shut him out, because there's no other choice.

"Tomorrow we go to Fort Connor," I say, and fear and guilt reappear in my gut in an instant. Cullen nods.

"Yes. Tomorrow."

* * *

That tomorrow was a bloody thing, as was the tomorrow after that.

It's now the third tomorrow, and I'm walking through the Witchwood back to Fort Connor, with my small company trailing behind.

The rebel mages are dead in their stronghold. The Inquisition is holding their cave for now. Ritts and Solas and Kinnon and Eldredda and I are going back to Fort Connor, to meet up with Cullen and Cassandra and Varric, who went with a different group of soldiers to take the Templar camp. I wonder if Cullen will think of me differently with all these lives ended by my hand. I wonder if he'll see all the death on my conscience casting a shadow over the ghost of the girl he once knew, the girl he always seems to search for behind my eyes. I wonder if he'll care.

I wonder if  _I_ care. I think the worst part of all this blood is that I don't really hate it. Or I do...but it's complicated. We fought to Fort Connor, and I killed mages and Templars alike. And then we fought through the Witchwood, and I killed even more. I hated ending their lives, but I didn't hate casting the spells that did it. I love to feel magic sing in me almost as much as I love to stand before a rift and close a hole in the world.

And besides, the Hinterlands will be a safer place without those mages. I ended lives today, yes, but I also saved them. I did. I think. I  _hope._

Even with all the bloodstains that will never come out of my clothes, I  _hope_.

And then an arrow whizzes out of the brush, and Ritts screams.

"TEMPLARS!" Varric shouts, and my staff is in my hand and spells are flying from my lips and the bloody, metallic chaos of battle envelopes me.

Sometimes it happens like that-the fight seeming to rise from the ground fully formed, as though it were always there, just waiting to show itself. Other times it happens slower, violence pulled from opposing bodies reluctantly. I like the sudden eruption better-there's less time to think about what it is we're really doing.

"Herald-left shoulder!" Solas says from in front of me.

I bring up my staff blade, and it catches on a longsword, giving me just enough time to twirl away from certain death. A flick and a fireball, and the Templar in front of me falls, her helm askew just enough to reveal escapist tendrils of straw blonde hair.

Ritts fires arrows black-eyed intensity. My eyes slide over a fallen form at her feet. Small. Slim. Female. Elven.

Except I can't look, not now. I lift my hand and lightning brings down a swordsman at Varric's back. Solas freezes an enemy with the same calm expression he wears while having a civil chat or eating bread.

A soldier I don't know-Leighton, maybe, Peyton, maybe-cuts down the last Templar, and the frenzy of lives ending lives ends as suddenly as it began.

"Check them," I call into the ensuing silence. "Look for orders." Except I can guess-we'd met other Templars in the Witchwood, searching for the same stronghold we just cleared out.

Across the clearing, Ritts stares open mouthed at the body at her feet. Kinnon stands farther away, but I can see his eyes trained on that sprawled out corpse, that corpse that was so recently a girl, her perfect black hair splayed out in the dirt.

_Eldredda._

And Ritts just  _stares._

I remember her tanned fingers twined with Eldredda's pale ones, the two of them sitting beside the fire in camp with their legs tangled up in each other. Tender glances passed between them, soft giggles, pretty smiled.

Not anymore. Eldredda, the apprentice mage who might have been First Enchanter some day, who was finding her way a vast new world-that girl is dead.

Maker, but Ritts  _stares._

For a wild moment, I wonder if Ritts remembers the feel of her hands as clearly as I remember Cullen's hands from the other night. I wonder if she ever felt like they were  _meant_  to find each other in all this chaos. I wonder if she ever felt like she might  _need_  her. Like I thought I was meant to find him again, that Andraste meant for us to come together again. That he was provided because he was  _needed._ Because  _I_  needed him.

The comparison is fleeting, but I hate that my mind went to that selfish place at all. I force my numb feet to close the gap between myself and Ritts and Kinnon.

"I won't burn her with the Templars," Kinnon says. "I won't." His eyes burn with shock and unshed tears.

"Of course not. She's one of our own," I reply. I'm not sure if I'm talking about the Inquisition or the Circle right now, but both feel equally true. Eldredda fought bravely on Cassandra and Cullen's orders, but the pieces of ourselves that matched were born in Kinloch Hold. Eldredda was one of  _our_  own, mine and Kinnon's, because she'd lived in those walls and read those books and parroted the same lessons we'd parroted long ago.

"We were just passing time," Ritts says, her voice a soft, strangled thing. "Those were her words, not mine. Just passing time. World was so uncertain, she said. Never know what might get taken away. Couldn't count on anything more than passing time."

My mind turns back to that day at the crossroads, when Eldredda told me how she had worked so hard at her lessons. And then when the Tower fell, none of it mattered anymore. None of it was real.

Eldredda was hardly more than a girl, but she knew that everything you ever had can be gone in an instant, that in times such as these, all you have is the here and now.


	9. Friends

 

 

 

My demon picks through my hair, twisting it away from my face in intricate braids. It's shorter now than it once was, swinging around my shoulders when it's loose, but it's enough to tie and twist. The feel of her feather-light fingers through my fine hair tingles across my scalp, and I let myself sink into her soft cushions and delicate hands.

I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I think it was a long time ago, now. Time is a funny thing in the Fade.

"Myrrha?" I call to her, tilting my head so I can just catch her blue eyes framed by her fire-red hair.

"Yes?"

"Why me?" It's a question I've asked her countless times before. It's meant different things over the years-Why haunt me? Why prey on me? Why  _help_  me? But she always tilts her head the same way, bright eyes somehow fuzzy in the light-drenched space.

"Because you're the little sparrow. You're…" She pauses, searching for words. This is as far as she ever gets.  _Why me? Because you're you._ And I've never persisted, because I've always been afraid of the answer. Not today. I am loose and limber here in away I haven't been during my waking hours. It's easy to just  _be_  here, and Myrrha feels more and more like a solid fixture in my life-or at least in my sleep. I'd like to tell myself I've been afraid of pushing her to become violent, to start bargaining for my body and life. But I think I've really been afraid of losing her, and I think that should frighten me even more. Except all I want to do is lie in my demons lap, sinking and floating all at once in this familiar locale.

"But there are a million potential sparrows in the world. Why would you wait ten years for me?"

"Because…" Her perfect brow wrinkles as she stares into me, and I know she sees more than brown eyes and a splash of freckles. She sees  _me,_ or at least the little flashes of me that sometimes tumble from her mouth. "Because you need rest," she says. "Because you are my friend."

_Friend._

The word twists in me. Friends with a demon. I shouldn't be talking to her at all-I should  _never_  have spoken with this lovely sloth of mine. Except I have never had very good taste in friends. I called Anders 'friend,' once. I called Jowan 'friend.' I should have learned my lesson a long time ago. Except I haven't. Because Myrrha  _is_  my friend.

"Don't go," I whisper.

"Ma nuvenin, little sparrow."

Through the night, she combs through my hair and we sing softly of sweet, lost things. I sing for Eldredda, for the mages and Templars that I killed, for the Inquisition soldiers that died for me and Cullen and Cassandra. For all the farmers who lost their livelihoods and the refugees who have to worry about their next meals. I sing for Ritts, who lost a lover, and Kinnon who lost an apprentice. All that singing is mournful and beautiful and almost like a prayer.

I think I might be the sort of person who prays now.

I'm not quite sure who I'm praying to. The Maker, maybe. Andraste, maybe. Or perhaps simply whoever it was that saved me, that gave me a second chance, the woman from the Fade, Andraste or not.

If these stolen, sleeping moments weren't so precious, I might think it's funny that I started to pray when I finally started to think of my demon as my friend.

Though demon or not, when it is time to wake, she lets me go.

* * *

 

My bed in Haven is nestled in a corner of the Chantry, in a room full of books and maps and miscellaneous supplies. Space is difficult to come by here, and I don't mind the makeshift quarters-especially since I don't have to share.

The gray light of a snowy dawn glints against dusty air. For a moment, I want to sink back into peaceful, prayerful sleep, but the day pulls me to feet. I skitter across the cold stone floor to pull on a change of clothes and stamp my feet into my boots, all custom made just for me. I've never had clothes that fit so precisely before-apprentices wear robes from old stock, and the Tranquil are hardly afforded personal seamstresses. But I'm the Herald of Andraste, now, and with that comes leather breeches that accommodate my broad hips without pooling at my ankles. Truth be told, I'm more used to cotton and silk robes than stiff leather, but the breeches and coat that Harrit made for me feel at once foreign and purposeful against my skin. As I sweep my hair into a little knot atop my head, I think I might feel more myself than I've ever been before.

It's a funny thought, especially today. Because today, I'm supposed to spend the entire morning with Josephine so we can negotiate exactly who I should be on my trip to Val Royeaux. Peacemaker? Prophet? Final hope for all of Thedas? It's not a conversation I'm particularly excited to have.

But I abandon my private storeroom of a bedchamber all the same, moving through a few tight corridors and then across the main chapel area towards Josephine's office. The crack under the door glows with lamplight, and so I knock once to announce my presence before entering.

"All right, Josephine. I'm ready for whatever-" I cut off mid sentence, because instead of an Antivan ambassador, the room is occupied by an elf even shorter than me, a little thing with big eyes and reddish hair. "Oh. Hello."

"H-hello, Herald," she says. She sits in a corner on the opposite side of the room from Josephine's desk, surrounded by a strange mixture of books and artifacts of recent battles-arrows and teeth and wisps in jars. "Lady Josephine isn't here right now. There wasn't anywhere to do my work, so she said it would be all right if I set up in here. I...I don't know when she'll be back."

"Oh." I watch her from the doorway, unsure if I should interrupt. The girls speaks with a soft accent, but her clothes and posture are all Circle issue. "We haven't met," I say eventually.

"I'm Minaeve. You're the Herald of Andraste. Or the one they're calling the Herald, anyway."

"Yes." We eye each other for a moment longer, neither of us sure who should speak next.

"Is there something I can help you with?" she says finally, and I almost shake my head no as an excuse to sit in silence. It's too early in the morning for my lips to form acceptable words, I think.

"You were not in Ferelden's Circle." I say instead.

"No, I'm from the Free Marches. Lived most of my life in the Circle in Markham."

"Were you in the Hinterlands?"

"No. I've been here since the Conclave. I didn't-I wasn't exactly important enough to be invited. I was never very good at magic. And when the mages rebelled, people like me didn't have anywhere to go. I ended up left behind with a lot of the Tranquil from my Circle, and I was trying to guide them to safety when Seeker Pentaghast took us in."

She says all of it as though she were describing an ordinary afternoon, but the imagery is of this slip of a girl, alone in a Tower with a pack of helpless, lost souls. Tears form hot in my eyes, and I blink to banish them. If I've decided to lead, I can't be crying at the drop of a hat. Not even in the face of a girl who might have been my rescuer, if not for an accident of geography.

"You helped the Tranquil," I say.

"I'm not like most mages. I won't ignore them or look down on them. And when they were left behind...they can't defend themselves at all. I couldn't just leave them." As she speaks, her jaw hardens, her cheeks hollow, and a steady fire appears behind her eyes. She knows what the Tranquil go through. She  _sees,_ when so many mages wouldn't allow themselves to look.

My hand strays to my brand and my mind strays to the night that we all learned it was over-the vote had passed. We were rebelling. I'd been the Tranquil transcribing the 'proceedings' that occurred directly after, because I preferred to be helpful. I preferred to be at the center of important happenings. I preferred to  _know._

I preferred not to be left behind, too. But if they had told me to stay, I would have. I wouldn't have argued. I would have  _obeyed_ , and I'm not sure there would have been someone like Minaeve there to help.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I don't need to tell you any of this. You know how the Tranquil are treated."

"Yes. I do." I stand straighter and lift my chin. I am the Herald of Andraste, and I am the only Tranquil who can really feel the deep gratitude that Minaeve deserves. And, Maker, I  _feel_ it, aching in me more acutely than any gratitude that I've ever felt before. "Thank you," I say, and it's not enough.

"Y-you're welcome. If it makes any difference, I've always admired the Tranquil. They're always polite, they never get angry at you, and they have a focus that no normal person could ever match. If...if it weren't for the way the Templars and mages treated them, I might have chosen that life. I suppose it doesn't matter now."

All the swelling gratitude in me crashes into heartbreak.  _I might have chosen that life_. She might have undergone the Rite anyway-Minaeve hardly looks old enough to be a Harrowed mage, and her robes are solid, apprentice blue.  _I was never very good at magic._ Depending on who her mentor was, she might not have had a choice.

I try to picture Minaeve with a sunburst on her forehead and a blank stare in her eyes, and I can't do it. She has too much fire. Too much determination. Too much  _heroism._

"Anyone strong enough to take in the helpless when it really mattered is strong enough to keep their wits about them in the Fade," I say.

"I don't know about all that. We all would have died without Seeker Pentaghast."

" _I_  would have died without Seeker Pentaghast, too. Several times over, at this point. It's hardly a sign of weakness."

"No, I suppose not. Do you mind-" Minaeve looks at the door and back at me. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Did you choose it? Tranquility?"

I bark a choked laugh. "No. My Rite was something a little unorthodox."

"What happened?"

"The day after my Harrowing I destroyed a blood mage's phylactery and helped him escape the Tower." Minaeve's mouth falls open, and I sigh. "That's a rather blunt version of the truth. My friend-my best friend-found out that he was going to be forced into Tranquility because the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander suspected that he was a blood mage. He assured me that he wasn't. I believed him, and I helped him go. He was like my brother. But he lied. We got caught, he used blood magic to get away, and I took the fall."

"What happened to him?"

"He's dead now," I say. All the rest of the truth is too painful to say to Minaeve. I've kept my voice steady thus far. I haven't been cracking. But what Jowan did in Redcliffe feels like a bigger betrayal to me than even just the blood magic. I could have forgiven that as one mistake. I could have forgiven him for ruining  _my_  life. But all those people...I shake my head, banishing the dark thoughts.

The door of the makeshift office opens behind me, and I whirl around to see Leliana, Josephine, and Solas in a tight group.

"Ah, Mistress Surana," Josephine says. "I see you've met Minaeve. She's been a great help to us."

"Yes," I say. "I've noticed."

"Walk with us, Herald," Leliana says. "We have a matter to discuss."

I glance from Minaeve to Leliana and Josephine and Solas, my heart sinking at the thought of news they wouldn't want her to hear. Disaster after disaster crosses my mind-maybe the Breach is growing. Maybe there's been a disaster in the Hinterlands. Maybe a rift opened up right over Val Royeaux.

I give Minaeve a nod and a smile before I slip into the main chapel with the others. The three of them look exhausted, as though they've been up all night. Even Josephine's ruffles look deflated. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Josephine says. "But Solas came to us with a...proposal."

"An idiotic proposal," Leliana adds. I study their dark circles and sour expressions-clearly Josephine disagrees about the idiocy of the issue. I try to meet their eyes, but all three of them aren't looking at me-they're looking at my  _brand._

"All right, Solas," I say, as we duck into the War Room. "Let's hear it. Clearly this has something to do with me."

"You're going to Val Royeaux soon," he says. "And once there, you have one chance to make a first impression. However you appear will be remembered, and it will color the bulk of Thedas' permanent opinion of you."

"You think I need to dress better? Fix my hair?" I think it's a little rich coming from Solas, of all people. His looks hardly scream of genteel respectability.

"No," he says. "I know a spell. One that could remove the sunburst from your forehead so that no one need know that you were once Tranquil."

"What?" I swing over to the opposite side of the room, putting the war table between myself and the others.  _No one need know that you were once Tranquil._  My gut churns. "Where could a hedge mage possibly learn such a thing? I've heard of no such magic."

"I think you should consider it," Josephine says, ignoring my question. "Your story is currently a complicated one. An elven mage is going to be a difficult thing for the people of Thedas to accept as a prophet. An elven mage that was once Tranquil? That was healed in the Fade? People will wonder if you are an abomination. They'll wonder if the Circle once judged you too weak to handle magic at all. The Tranquil make ordinary people very nervous, and they will use that against you."

"Our Josephine is being close-minded," Leliana says. "What could be better than a Herald that was healed by Andraste herself, only to be sent down to save us all? You will be a phoenix rising from ashes-one that bears the symbol of the Chantry on her face. It's very poetic, and we would be fools to give that up."

"Leliana doesn't see-"

" _Wait_. Stop." I rub the heel of my hand against my forehead, as if covering it up might stop them all from staring at me. "Why are we even talking about this? I've been in public for weeks now. It's not like people haven't seen me."

"Not the people of any court, however," Josephine says. "The rumors of your Tranquility will be dismissed if you come to Val Royeaux without a brand."

"Rumors of my Tranquility. My life is  _rumor_?"

"Everything is rumor just now-"

"It will not be as easy as Josie describes-my spies will have to work very hard to convince the world that you never had a brand at all. But it could be done. If we wanted to do it."

"But we don't." My voice comes hard and confident. I think of Minaeve, who might have been Tranquil, if things were different. Of the actual Tranquil she led from the Circle. Of the discussions about whether or not we'd be left behind Kinloch Hold. I think of Cullen, who couldn't look at me after my Rite. Of Irving, who  _wouldn't_  look at me after my Rite.

I feel echoes of unwelcome hands that I didn't fight off. I remember the bite of Templar whips as they punished me for reasons I couldn't understand. I remember staring at the walls, counting stones as they beat me. Because I needed to  _focus_  on something. I needed a  _task_. I was always focused on a task.

And I should want it gone. I should want all of that  _gone_. Except there's some piece of me, the same piece that wanted to be more than a weapon to point at rifts, that knows it was all for a reason. That piece of me know that I wouldn't be here without those years. I wouldn't be able to look at a Tranquil mage and know that there's a person worth protecting in their bones. That there's a soul behind their eyes. And with this brand, with this reminder, I'm in a position to help them.

The piece of me that knows all this has  _faith_.

"See?" Leliana says. "It's settled." She turns toward the door like it's done, like she doesn't have to think about it any longer.

"No. Stop. It isn't settled." When they turn back to me, they look at my  _eyes_. "This isn't about the narrative. It's not about making people feel confident in my piety because I have a sunburst on my forehead. If we're going to restore order to the world, we can't just put the pieces back exactly where they were. Where they were wasn't working. And I will fight to my last breath to make sure the Tranquil aren't left behind when we assemble those pieces, whether they can speak for themselves or not. I will not erase it from my own past. I will not let anyone forget just because it makes them uncomfortable."

The others watch me with new eyes. I'm standing straight backed and high chinned, challenging them to speak.

"Ma nuvenin, lethallan," Solas says. Josephine and Leliana look to each other.

"Well?" I say. "Is there anything else you wanted to say about going to Val Royeaux?"

"No," Leliana says. "No, it sounds like you'll do just fine on your own. Come on, Josie. I have some letters to show you."

And with that, they both leave, leaving Solas and I to stare at each other over maps and markers and pinned correspondences.

"So, Solas. Where did you learn this magic?"

He angles his bald head at me, eyes dispassionate and brow lifted ever so slightly.

"From a spirit."

"A demon."

"A  _friend_." He slips from the room, then, leaving me alone with the piecemeal record of a war.

I hope he's better at choosing friends than I am.

* * *

_Twelve Years Earlier_

_A hand grabs my shoulder, shaking me out of sweet dreams of songs and books and peppermint tea. And a demon. That too._

" _Addie, wake up."_

" _G'way, Jowan."_

" _You have to wake up."_

" _I'll report you for coming into the girl's dormitory. If they lock you up, I can sleep."_

" _Addie-Loren's gone."_

_I groan and turn over in bed, swatting away Jowan's hand. Loren is an older apprentice, twenty or so. His nose is much too large for his chin, and his ego is much too large for his ability. "Shut up. Loren would never run away. That idiot thinks he's going to run this place someday."_

" _Not anymore. He's_ gone _, Addie. Gone."_

" _He failed his Harrowing? He's dead?" I sit up in bed, immediately guilty that I thought badly of a dead man's nose, but Jowan shakes his head._

" _Worse. He's Tranquil. Apparently Irving and his mentor agreed that it had to be done."_

" _Shit," I breathe. Arrogant, posturing Loren, who kissed a lot of girls despite his pointy nose, is Tranquil. My stomach turns at the thought of his booming voice mellow and submissive._

" _Addie-what if-"_

" _Stop. We're gonna be fine, you and me. As long as you keep showing up to Summoning, we're gonna be fine."_

" _Loren always showed up to Summoning," Jowan insists._

" _Well, he was shit at it. Just don't be shit at it." I clamber from my bunk, combing knots out of my hair with one hand and rooting through my trunk for clean robes with the other. Another pang of guilt shoots through my gut, because Loren wasn't even_ that  _bad at magic. He wasn't as good as he thought he was, but we've all seen worse casters pass their Harrowings. And Loren wasn't even allowed to try._

_Jowan grabs my arm, but I still won't look him in the eye. I_ can't  _look at him right now, because we both know that Loren's lack of summoning skills aren't what has him staring blankly at the walls of the Tranquil's quarters right now._

_We both know-we_ all  _know, all of the apprentices-that it was because of the nightmares. But only Jowan knows I have dreams, too. Only Jowan knows I have a demon of my own. And no one else can ever know that-no one else_ will  _ever know that. Because I'm Aderyn Surana, and I'm the First Enchanter's own apprentice. I can cast circles around half the Tower's enchanters, even though I'm half their age. I'm always the best at all my lessons. I might be First Enchanter myself someday. I'm not like Loren, no matter what Jowan might think._

" _I'm_ fine _," I insist. "Now go away so I can change. Irving will skin me alive if I'm late."_

" _All right, all right. I'll see you later, Addie."_

" _Bye, Jowan." I watch him go as I start to twist a few braids into my waist-long hair. Telling him about Myrrha was a mistake, I think. It had been five years ago when I told him-I was a child. Eleven. And he was my only friend, the only one who'd always been kind to me. I didn't understand yet that Jowan, my goofy almost-brother Jowan, was not the sort of boy who knew how to keep secrets._

_I pull a clean robe over my head, and I work at all the little satin buttons before I pull on a belt and slip into my soft shoes. I sweep into the hallway, and I walk purposefully in the opposite direction of Irving's office._

_Sweeping is a special skill of mine, and it's especially useful when I'm absolutely terrified. As long as I look like exactly where I'm going is exactly where I belong, nobody will stop me from going to the garden, even though I don't belong there at all. Even though I'm only going there because I know the Tranquil have their morning walk there, and I want to see Loren with my own eyes. I want to memorize his new face. I want to banish all remnants of the arrogant boy who had too many nightmares from my mind._

_As my robes_ whisk-whisk  _down the hall, I sweep right into a Templar._

" _Oh. Aderyn," he says. I scramble backwards and when I look up to meet his eyes, I'm facing the lovely, golden countenance of_ my  _Templar, or rather, the young man I've come to think of my Templar, even though we hardly ever speak._

" _Cullen. Hello."_

" _I-I was actually-I was just coming to look for you. Or-I mean. I just wanted to make sure you were all right, you see. I j-just. Yes. Hello. Here you are."_

_I smile as he works out his stutters, a blush to match his own creeping their way from my cheeks to my ears. His eyes catch the light of the stained glass behind him, so that yellows and blues and greens appear in his tawny irises. A curl escapes the rest, spilling onto his tanned forehead._

" _Is there a reason I shouldn't be all right?" I ask._

" _The boy who underwent the Rite last night. I understand you knew him. I just-well, I just thought you might need someone to t-talk to. A friend."_

_My heart pounds at those words. His lips quirk into an encouraging smile, framed by a youthfully sparse hint of a beard. And in that moment, Maker, do I want to be Cullen Rutherford's friend. I want to watch his lips form words all day, I want to watch his eyes glow almost golden in the sunlight, I want to hear him stutter._

_But he can't get too close, because I might slip. I might tell him that there's a demon that comes to me at night, and her name is Myrrha. I might tell him that I like this demon, that she hardly scares me anymore. And if Cullen Rutherford knew that, I wouldn't be his friend anymore. I wouldn't be_ anyone's  _friend anymore._

" _I'm an apprentice, Ser Cullen, and you're a Templar. We're not allowed to be friends."_


	10. Of Priests and Seekers

The road to Val Royeaux was nothing like the road to the Hinterlands. The farther we got from the Breach, the more we saw of ordinary life-we were more likely to see merchant caravans and farmer's carts than refugees and Templars or mages looking to pick a fight. It was nearly enough to make me enjoy the sunshine and forget that my hand glows under the tight glove I've been using to hide it.

But as Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and I make our way towards the decorated gates of Val Royeaux's summer market, my gut twists with all the nervous energy of I've been repressing for days. For beyond the fanciful walls of the Orlesian capital, I'm fear there may be a city full of people itching to see me hang.

"So," Varric says. "You and Curly." He sidles closer to me on the cobbled street, and my back stiffens. I'm fairly certain he's trying to distract me with thoughts of something other than potentially imminent death, but he also couldn't have chosen a more fraught topic of conversation.

"If you're looking for some kind of epic love story for some book of yours, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed."

"C'mon, Herald. We've all seen the intense eye contact, and he went on and on about how  _knew_  you when we all thought you were a mass murderer. There's some kind of story there, and we all know it."

"Maker, Varric. He was a Templar in Ferelden before he transferred to Kirkwall. I lived there my entire life. So yes. We knew each other. Apparently he didn't believe me the mass murdering type. Whatever saucy scandal you're picturing never happened."

"So I take it you stared longingly at every Templar in the entire Tower."

"Perhaps I did. Perhaps my eyeballs are right tarts."

Cassandra groans, but she smiles, too, and Solas laughs. Laughing is good-laughing means they're not thinking too hard about what I might actually feel for Cullen. Because I can't tell them that my silly soul seems to strike soft chords with his, that there's something grand and gorgeous between us when our eyes meet, but even when we were the most obviously lovelorn pair in Kinloch Hold, we were both far too invested in playing the roles of Templar and mage to act on it. I certainly can't tell them about what happened after. How Cullen was tortured with visions of a version of me he could never have. How I was raped and beaten and I barely remember how to feel. I'd so much rather be funny than sappy and morbid at once.

"You don't look at me like we're star-crossed lovers," Varric persists. "Perhaps you have something against dwarves?"

"I don't think you're exposing enough chest hair to catch her attention," Solas teases.

"Does Curly even  _have_  chest hair?"

"I honestly would not know," I reply.

"That's very boring honesty," Varric says. "C'mon. I can see it-you're the Tower's golden apprentice-mentored by the First Enchanter himself! He's the dutiful Templar boy, making sure you don't turn into an abomination during a morning stroll in the gardens. You trip on your delicate elven ankles, but he catches your elbow! And you shouldn't, you really shouldn't, but your eyes meet over a rose bush and your lips lock and-"

"I thought your romance serials sold like shit, Varric." I shoot back. "Maybe you should stick to crime dramas."

"Varric should write whatever he wishes-including  _Swor-_ including romance. If that's what he wishes." Cassandra blushes, and Solas lifts a thick brow in her direction.

"How unexpectedly supportive of you. Does this mean we're finally getting married? We could have a double wedding! You and me and Curly and the Herald."

"Tch." Cassandra sets her jaw and stares straight ahead. I let the three of them bicker and joke beside me as we pass through the gates. Stony likenesses of Andraste and her earthly companions loom above us, casting flat judgement across those who pass below. I wonder if Andraste can see me. I wonder if she approves of this visit to Orlais, or if she thinks I'm being terribly idiotic, risking the very life she so graciously handed back to me. Or maybe she thinks I'm a terrible blasphemer, claiming her name on my own mad quest for power, and she'll smile from on high as the Chantry relieves me of my head.

We pass through gilded gates into the main square, where a crowd swells around a wooden platform. A priest-one of Orlais's Grand Clerics-stand at center stage, shouting at the top of her lungs. People skitter away from me as I approach, like water fleeing in droplets from intruding oil. The shouting priest follows the new gap, and her eyes shine with anticipation as she meets my gaze.

"Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me! Together, we mourn our divine, her naive and beautiful heart, blinded by treachery."

She's not speaking to the good people of Val Royeaux, though. She's looking right at me, she speaking right to me. They're window dressing, mere witnesses to the accusations she wants to fling right at me. "You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more."

I don't flinch at her words. I've spent ten years wearing a neutral expression-it's not difficult to muster one now. And I know that I'm not Justinia's murderer. I know that some mysterious figure called her a 'sacrifice.' I know that same figure called me an 'intruder.' And if that's all I can remember, it's enough for me to know very well that this priest is a liar.

"Behold!" she calls, reaching a robed hand in my direction, all sweeping movements and booming voice. "The so-called 'Herald of Andraste,' claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! The Maker would send no elf in our time of need!"

_The Maker would send no elf._  Solas stiffens beside me, and I can sense all the righteous indignation he keeps stored in his sometimes fiery eyes. I glance through the crowd, and I spot the elves on the fringes, near ivy-clad walls. They're dirtier than the humans of the market, poverty staining their gaunt cheeks and tight mouths.

I wish more of the humans looked sufficiently upset by the blatant racism. I wish fewer elves looked like they half believed it themselves.

_The Maker would send no elf._ Hadn't I thought the very same thing when I first heard the words 'Herald of Andraste?' I'd thought it a preposterous idea. I'm an elf and a mage and barely functional, barely whole. I am not the easy choice, if someone were really doing the picking.

And yet, here I am. Healed. Marked. Leading. And I can feel...something. It tingles at the edge of my being, a presence that doesn't quite belong to me. And for the first time in my life, I think it might be Andraste watching over me, or else some other deity who doesn't seem too terribly offended when I think of her as Andraste. It's there to say that even though I looked at those statues and wondered of Andraste's opinion of me, there's  _something_  in this tangle of a world that has placed me exactly where I am.

"I am not here to debate theology," I cry. "I am an elf, yes. And a mage. I was once Tranquil, and by the grace of Andraste, I am healed. All of these rumors you've heard are true." Murmurs rippled around me, and I take a deep breath, willing my voice to come in stronger. My instructors used to say that the whole Tower could hear me coming from three floors away when I wanted to be heard. My words would fill my lungs to the brim and spill forth with the conviction of a person who would sound like they mattered through sheer force of will.

I haven't been that girl for a long time, but I feel her strength spreading from some deep, hidden part of me, all the way to the surface, soaking through my blood and bones and breath.

"Another, far more sinister rumor is also true," I shout without, my voice full and unbroken. "To the east, in the Frostback Mountains, there is a Breach from this world into the Fade. Demons threaten our world. It must be closed. And I can close it." I lift my hand, letting the mark glow bright in the noontime sun.

A hush falls over the crowd, and pressing bodies form a perfect circle around me. The relative quiet rings in my ears, as though all the noise in the world were muffled by the empty air between me and them. A thousand eyes crawl over my person, from my mark to my brand to my pointed ears, to the staff on my back and the leathers on my shoulders.

I'm not just a lost apprentice and her strong voice standing in front of them. I'm the woman who has felt countless stares in these last months, the one who has closed rifts. The unbeliever who has felt the gentle stirrings of new faith. I'm the mage who has walked miles and miles further than I ever imagined, crossed borders and mountains and rivers and roads far beyond the confines of the walls that once held me. I'm the elf who has learned to love these pointed ears; I'm the Ferelden who has learned to trust a horse's hooves to carry me where my feet cannot.

I am also the Tranquil who knew, deep in my bones, that something inside me was missing, and it was leaving hollow spaces where other people were full. Who always had to be filling myself up with tasks, with copying books and enchanting runes and fixing benches and cleaning floors...with counting stones when the walls were the only thing left to stare at. I am the Tranquil who always knew that everyone else was connected in a way that I was not, and always knew that no matter how deep I dug into myself, I could never get that connection back, even if I had the capacity to want it.

Even as I stand here, feeling all the parts of me melt together under their fervent gazes, I am not delusional enough to believe that they can see them coalesce. But I know they can see slivers of slivers of pieces of me, the pieces that they have the context for. An elf. A mage. A woman. A Ferelden. A person who knows what it means to be broken.

Here, I am Tranquil and not, tumbling and still, separate from anyone and together with everyone. And even though many of the people who stare at me now will go back to hating me in a moment, I have faith that some elusive divinity put  _me_  before them, this fractured being still learning to be whole.

Cassandra steps forward beside me, and her presence buzzes in harmony with mine as her hand circles my wrist and her thick muscles support the glow that dances across my splayed fingers.

"This mark, this woman, can close the Breach!" she calls. "The Inquisition stands with her to stop this threat before it is too late."

The energy of the crowd swells, but the Grand Cleric steps closer to the edge of the platform, and she points toward a line of Templars moving in her direction.

"It is already too late," she says, and her face tightens in a sickly marriage of disgust and triumph. "The Templars have returned to the Chantry, and they will face this 'Inquisition,' and the people will be safe once more!"

I can almost taste Cassandra's fiery rebuttal in the air, but before she can voice it, one of the Templars marching onto that platform hurls a fist at the back of the Grand Cleric's head.

She crumples to the ground, fragile and floating as a bird struck by an arrow. One of the Templars, young and handsome, moves as if to help her. But another, their clear leader, moves toward him with a sneer as heavy as his armor.

"Still yourself," he says. "She is beneath us." The ugly truth in his words flashes painfully in the young Templar's eyes.  _She_  is already still.  _She_  is quite literally beneath them.

For a moment, my mind flits to Cullen, who was once a young, handsome Templar, who might have been that conflicted man on that platform, whose first instinct might have been to help a defenseless priest after one of his fellows knocked her down. The young Templar straightens his back and tightens his jaw, and I think Cullen might have done that, too. He might have fallen in line when his duty commanded it.

"Is this what the Templars are, now?" I ask, and this time I'm not talking to the crowd. I'm looking right at that pale, aging leader, so far above a woman with no means to defend herself. "Thugs who beat priests?"

He ignores me, and Cassandra pushes towards him. "Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that speak with-"

"You will not address me."

"Lord Seeker?"

_Lord Seeker._ The words rattle in my mind, even as he brushes by Cassandra the same way he ignored me. He's the leader of Cassandra's order, the order she still clings to, even as most of the Inquisition have abandoned their titles and outside allegiances, as Cullen has abandoned the Templars.

If anyone  _should_  want to talk, it's a man who heads an order named the 'Seekers of the Truth.'

"Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste's prophet. You should be ashamed." He briefly meets her eyes, and then passes his judgement to the crowd at large. "You should all be ashamed. The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! You are the ones who have failed, you who have leashed our righteous swords with doubt and fear!"

I could almost laugh, if I weren't afraid it would start a rather deadly riot in the grand markets of Val Royeaux.  _Failed no one_ , as if the mages they killed were no one, the Tranquil they abused were no one, the farmers whose homes they burned were no one.

"If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny that commands respect here is  _mine._ "

I step forward. I force him to see me. I force him to look at the brand that failed  _me._

"The only heresy I see here is yours," I say. "Are you protecting the Maker's children by declaring his priests beneath you and burning his lands to slaughter his mages?"

" _His_  mages? Am I supposed to believe that you're one of them? Andraste's Herald? You are an elf. You have nothing. No influence, no power, and certainly no holy purpose."

"But Lord Seeker," says the handsome Templar. He moves forward nervously and earnestly, eyes searching for guidance from a man he wants to desperately to trust. "What if she really was sent by the Maker? You saw the mark-" But another Templar pulls him back, and the Lord Seeker ignores him.

"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition, independence! You and your mark have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition less than nothing." The Lord Seeker's eyes slide over the crowd, and he takes his first steps back. "Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"

And with that, they file away, leaving Cassandra, Varric, and I in a rapidly emptying square. As the people of Val Royeaux scurry away, they steal glances in my direction, no doubt already composing stories for posterity.  _I was there when..._

"Charming fellow, isn't he?" Varric says.

"Quite," Solas adds. "And our friend the Grand Cleric was positively sweet as well."

"Solas. Varric." I shake my head. Cassandra tracks the Lord Seeker's back, jaw stiff and back straight and eyes hard. "What do you know about him?"

"I know he's gone completely mad. Did you hear him? He sounded ridiculous." She quivers with rage and incredulity.

" _Cassandra_."

She takes a deep, steadying breath. "He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert's death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is...very bizarre."

"Not given to grandstanding?" Solas inquires, lifting one of those oh-so-expressive brows.

"Bizarre. As I said."

Behind us, the Grand Cleric groans.

I should be angry with her.  _The Maker would send no elf._  But I move towards her on liquid legs, carried by a will only half my own.

_Andraste, if you grant me anything today, let it be one last ounce of grace._

I vault onto the platform, and I settle beside her.

"Let me help you," I say, softly now. Just for us, for her and me. Not for the crowds or for the Lord Seeker or for public perception.

A nasty bruise is in its infancy on her cheek, and she glares at me even as I remain tranquil before her. Even if I am 'elf' to her in public. Even if, layered behind that 'elf,' is a private overtone of 'knife ears.'

"You must be very pleased," she says. "I have been attacked by my own Templars in front of half of Val Royeaux, and my fellow Clerics have scattered to the wind, along with their convictions."

"No. I am not pleased. I came to Val Royeaux only to speak with the Mothers."

"Do not pretend you had no part in forcing this confrontation. Calling yourself 'the Herald of Andraste.' You're an elf and a mage-a mage once deemed unfit in the eyes of the Maker to wield your magic at all."

"That is not what happened."  _You have been granted a mercy,_ Greagoir said, all those years ago. I wasn't unfit. I was strong a strong mage, a good mage. Harrowed.

_No._  I  _am_ strong, and I am so very harrowed. "I can offer you healing magic."

"Why would you wish to help me at all?" she spits, her good eye narrowing even as the other continues to swell. And yet, as I summon warm healing magic to my fingertips, she does not protest. I slide my fingers gently across her face, and her bruises float away, and with them, the last of my anger.

"You trusted the Templars-your friends-to join you today. They attacked you instead. I once trusted a friend when I should not have, and I suffered for it too." I touch my still glowing hand to my forehead, but the last ten years cannot be healed with my meager magic, visible brand or no. "Andraste healed my hurt, so I healed yours."

"You really do believe you are the Herald of Andraste, don't you?" The question starts as an accusation, but her own anger fades with every word, and now she studies me, tranquil as I ever was.

I study her back for a moment, her gray eyes soft in her aging face. She is round in a way that suggests a soft life to match them, though I lived in the Tower long enough to know that a full belly is not the same thing as an easy life.

I could tell her that I believe the last weeks of my life have been far too improbable to be the result of random happenstance. I could tell her that I truly believe in some kind of benevolent deity, that might be the Maker or Andraste or something else, for the first time in my life. I could tell her that I can close rifts and do magic and  _feel_  again, and all of that must be for a reason. It  _must_ be. That if I don't believe it's for a reason, I think I'll fly into a thousand pieces that can never be put back together.

All those things tumble through me, the same way as all those mundane tasks did when I was Tranquil. I could voice those feelings, now. I have the capacity, now. I could be messy and rolling and complicated.

Instead, I nod.

"Yes."

* * *

My whole body buzzes as I walk away from that platform to rejoin the others. Varric whistles low as we walk away.

"Andraste's tits, Herald. I think you almost believed yourself for a second."

I don't look at him as I settle back in my skin. "Let's eat some tiny cakes or something ridiculously Orlesian before we go back to Haven, shall we?"

"Are we really not going to talk about the fact that you just now looked like a real life prophet?"

I shrug, and my rapidly beating heart presses a smile onto my lips. The Orlesian sun heats my face, and the market air fills my lungs with the sweet essence of fancy food and expensive perfume and delicate flowers.

"It's about time I started acting the part, no?"

Varric barks an incredulous laugh, and Cassandra shares in my smile. Solas, though-his eyes narrow, and I can't quite tell what he's accusing me of. Grandstanding, perhaps? Except Solas approves of showy affectations.

What he doesn't approve of is believing your own bullshit.  _Tel'abelas, Solas. I'm not sorry._ I can't be, because I need to live this faith as much as I need to breathe, or I won't have the strength to keep fighting.


	11. Not a Templar

The Iron Bull comes at me with a dull-edged axe like a maelstrom, and I lift my shield as I whirl to avoid him. This shield,  _my_  shield, still feels foreign on my arm. Harrit made it for me, and it's a fine weapon-large and sturdy and emblazoned with Inquisition heraldry. But the balance isn't quite the same as the Templar-issue shield I carried for so many years, and I'm still growing used to its heft.

But I won't go back to the old one. Because I, Cullen Rutherford, am not a Templar anymore.

I swipe my practice blade at the Iron Bull's knees, and he half groans, half laughs as he falls and I hold my sword to his thick neck.

"Not bad, not bad," he says. "I must be getting soft." His voice thunders as I offer a hand to help him up. I hum noncommittally-I don't believe for a single moment that this Qunari was bested so easily. He's been testing me since Aderyn arrived back from the Iron Coast with him and his mercenaries in tow. It's been casual. Subtle. If I weren't so used to that same kind of testing from my some of superiors in the Templars, I might not have spotted it at all.

I grab a waterskin from the table near the yard, and I toss one to the Iron Bull as well. My muscles ache more than I want them too, and I wish he weren't looking at me like he could see it-and I wish that aching muscles were the worst side effect of lyrium withdrawal to hide from the Qunari.

I also with Aderyn would stop collecting such inquisitive allies for our Inquisition.

"So," he says as I take a drink. "How long have you and the 'Herald of Andraste' been knocking boots?"

A cough rattles my chest as I spit my mouthful of water into the snow. "Sweet Maker," I sputter. "We're not-I wouldn't-we've never done any such thing."

"What do you call it then? Taking a tumble? Rolling in the hay? Making love?"

"No, Andraste's grace, man. No."

"C'mon. If I've learned anything about your people, it's that when there's that much intense eye contact happening, there's usually a great deal of  _other_  contact going on where no one can see. If you catch my drift."

"I-I understand perfectly." I look everywhere but at his stupid grin.  _Intense eye contact._  Maker, I'll have to be careful about that. Or maybe I won't, because locking eyes with Aderyn is one of the few things that grounds me in this world gone mad, where the sky bleeds demons and I am not a Templar anymore. "I assure you that no such...contact...is taking place."

"Ha. Commander, you might be a little looser on the attack if you had a little more contact in your life. If you catch-"

"Yes, Bull. Yes. A blind nug could catch this particular drift." I take a deep breath, purposefully putting my sword out of arm's' reach. "We are simply old friends."

"You two got history. Anyone with eyes can see that. What I can't quite figure is why, when our Lady Herald woke from her creepy, Tranquil slumber, you two didn't start fucking like rabbits."

He looks at me as if he expects me to tell him that he is perfectly right, that I should probably go, because I have some urgent boot-knocking and hay-rolling to take care of. Because rabbits, you know.

"Is there a reason that you've shifted from your subtle interrogation to this more direct one?"

"Noticed that, did you? Maybe I just wanted to know if you'd say something about it. Good on you, Commander." He tosses the waterskin back in my direction and starts to head off toward his mercenaries' camp. "I was serious about the contact doing you some good, though. Just think about it."

I curse furiously under my breath, and the Iron Bull just laughs as he saunters off. I've never seen someone so big saunter in my life.

"Commander-" behind me, a messenger, Kevan, pipes up. Hair falls into his eyes and he smooths it across his brow as I turn to him. He can't be more than thirteen or fourteen, around the same age I was when I left home. Haven is a harder place than the monastery, however, and I try to smile at him every time we speak. "Sister Leliana is looking for you in the Chantry, sir. She wouldn't say why."

"Very good, Kevan. Thank you," I murmur. My smile is a little less encouraging than usual, but my mind is frayed just now, and my legs protest as I turn them up the hill towards Haven's Chantry. Maybe Leliana will have good news from some secret espionage. Maybe I'll get to see Aderyn while I'm there.

Except, the truth is that I think she's avoiding me. She's been in and out of Haven a few times, and the last time we truly spoke was in the Hinterlands, before she went to Val Royeaux. I held her hand, and we laughed of old stutters born anew. I can still feel the softness of her palms and that tight-knuckled fist she made when she was in so much pain. My chest still tightens at the thought of her hurting so badly, all alone.

But she's been back from Orlais for nearly a month, gathering allies and waiting to arrange meetings with Templars or mages. She hasn't sought me out, and I won't chase her down if she doesn't wish to see me. I'm not the same boy who followed her around the Tower, stammering and blushing through those stone halls. Running the Inquisition's forces is a time consuming task, after all, and keeping an extra close eye on Aderyn Surana is no longer a justifiable part of my job description.

Besides, maybe I've been avoiding her a little bit, too.

Because a lot has happened since I was that Templar boy. I lost her. The Tower fell. I was tortured. I went to the Gallows, the Gallows that hardened me, that twisted my thoughts in more sickly knots than a demon ever could. I was a Templar, after all, a Templar that had seen the worst of magic in the worst of times. And then a Templar that saw the worst of  _Templars_  in the worst of times.

What had I said to Hawke when she asked about Alrik's 'Tranquil Solution?'  _There is an argument to be made for applying the Rite more widely_. Like we did to too many mages in the Gallows. Like we did to Aderyn. Maker, I believed it when Greagoir said we were granting her a mercy.  _Too many mages view the Rite as no better than death,_  I'd said.

Except I believed that it was like death, too. I'd seen it. I watched the woman I so admired lose all the life in her tilted, dark eyes, the eyes I always wanted to catch across the library so I could drink every ounce of them, so I could parse out little shards of meaning in all her inscrutable gazes. From that moment in the Harrowing chamber, when I looked on as she wept, when Greagoir pressed that brand to her forehead, I thought of her as dead. Gone. Lost. Even still, I condemned those who thought the same for their friends-and especially for themselves.  _You have been granted a mercy._ I wanted so badly for them to believe they'd been granted a mercy.

Aderyn doesn't know any of this. She doesn't know my vilest thoughts about mages and magic. She doesn't know the blind eyes I turned, the active roles I took. And I'm afraid that every time she looks at me, she'll see just a little bit more of the man I became, the man I allowed Uldred and Meredith and the Gallows to make me. And I can't expect her to do anything but hate that man, because he is fearful and tortured and small.

But I am not that man anymore. I am not a  _Templar_  anymore. The headache tightening the muscles at the base of my skull won't let me forget it.

Inside the Chantry, the usual echo of activity fills the nave. People trading, talking, arguing, praying...it's a strange center for a movement, I think. My mind can't help but stray to the rather extensive dungeons beneath us every time I walk through the door. They're the same dungeons where the Hero of Ferelden found Brother Genetivi. They're also the dungeons where we held Aderyn, where I saw her for the first time in a decade, feverish and unconscious and maybe dying.

I push dark thoughts from my mind as I push toward the war room. There, Josephine stands in the center of the room, her hair frazzled and hand massaging her temples. To the left, Cassandra seethes, and to the right, Aderyn and Leliana both stand stock still, chins high and eyes ablaze. I bite my tongue to keep from cursing for what would be the thousandth time in a hour.

"Welcome, Commander," Josephine sighs. "We were just having a...civil discussion about the formal invitation we received from Grand Enchanter Fiona to meet with her in Redcliffe."

Aderyn's eyes fly to mine. The turn of her head is barely perceptible-the last ten years have changed her from girl who spoke with her hands as much as her voice to a woman who spares no energy for unnecessary motion. But her eyes, rimmed with thick lashes, still know exactly how to find mine across a room. And now, as always, they beg me to understand some hidden meaning stored behind rich, brown irises.

"And the Templars? What of our efforts there?"

Aderyn snaps her eyes away, and I can't help but echo a smidge of the anger that's so plain to me in her tightening brow.  _Don't you understand?_  I want to ask.  _If we're going to help the mages, we need them. We do._

Josephine rolls her neck before she speaks. "I've approached several Orlesian nobles about petitioning the Templars for an audience. I believe we could win one, but I'm not at all certain that a peaceful alliance could be achieved."

"Which is precisely why we should be going to Redcliffe," Leliana says. "Why turn down the allies already courting us for allies we'd have to court? It is not to our advantage."

"The Lord Seeker isn't himself, but the rest of the Templars could buy us much needed legitimacy-" Cassandra begins.

"Don't pretend you give a damn about legitimacy, Cassandra," Leliana spits. "You don't trust the mages."

"And you care so much about convenience? Don't accuse me of-"

"Sincere or not, Leliana has a point. Redcliffe is not far, and we have been invited to a meeting. We should attend," Josephine says.

I take a deep breath. How many times has this makeshift war room seen this kind of wall-rattling argument? Too many times for such a short time.

"The truth is, we can't approach the mages without approaching the Templars first," I say. "We'd have chaos. Abominations. We can't close the Breach if we're constantly fighting to keep our people safe from each other." Leliana turns to me, blue eyes sharp and dangerous as daggers from inside her hood, and Josephine groans audibly.

Perhaps that statement could have used a little more tact, but I couldn't let it go unsaid. Because the entire mage rebellion shipped to Haven? With no oversight? No safeguards at all? It would be chaos. I know what a mass of unstable mages looks like.

It looks like the halls of the Tower running red with the blood of my friends. It looks like the ashes of Kirkwall. It looks like demons pounding at my skull.  _Is this what you want?_ they asked all those years ago, crawling through my memories, all dressed up in Aderyn's face.  _I can taste her in your desires. I can bring her back. Her soul for yours. Her soul for yours._   _If you wish it, you can have it. You just have to want her. Don't you love her? Her soul for yours._

The real Aderyn, the one I refused to save, stares at me. She tucks a lock of her shoulder-skimming hair behind a pointed ear, and I almost wish that she would shout, scream, call me a bigot and a brute. Instead her eyes bore into me, and I imagine that she can see my most shameful thoughts, read them as intensely as she used to read her books.

"No," Leliana says. "Bringing Templars and mages here at the same time would be chaos. We can have one or the other. Templar oversight did not stave off chaos even when they locked mages in towers-it won't work in Haven, either."

"It worked for centuries!" I hate that I can hear hints of an old whine rising in my throat.  _We can't trust them, Knight-Commander, not even Irving-they could be abominations, they could have demons, they could kill us all, they could ask me to trade my soul for hers, and I might say yes._ I shake my head to clear it, to rattle out the last echoes of demonic shadows in my lurking memories. "The Order needs reform, yes, but that doesn't mean we go straight to the mages and give them the freedom to slaughter each other."

Aderyn leans forward and rests her hands on the war table, and the others quiet to catch her coming words. Her tilted eyes accuse me, but I won't flinch. How can she not see that mages need  _something_? She was there. She saw what Uldred became.

"Tell me," she continues. "When exactly did locking mages in towers stop working? When did those centuries end? Was it before or after you watched your Knight-Commander brand me with lyrium?"

_You have been granted a mercy._  "I-no, that's...that wasn't right, but Ferelden's Circle wasn't-"

"Ferelden's Circle wasn't the Gallows? So...it was acceptable that my friend felt so desperate to avoid Tranquility that he turned to blood magic to make himself appear better at his lessons? It was acceptable that many felt so confined in that Tower that they followed Uldred to madness? It was acceptable that Templars abused mages, that everyone abused the Tranquil that I was...that I was utterly helpless for most of my adult life?" She blinks those sparkling eyes; her cheeks flush and her nostrils flare and her small mouth tightens with every word.

"Tell me more,  _Knight-Captain_. How many Rites of Tranquility did it take before the Circles stopped working? How many mages pushed into desperation? How many children taken away their mothers, how many runaways killed, how many lives had to be ruined over those centuries before you could look at this whole tangle and say it didn't work anymore? And how many more will it take before we decide that we can have mages in groups without first acquiring Templars to police them? Well?  _Knight-Captain?_ "

Leliana and Josephine and Cassandra shrink away, and the room becomes just her and me, her face pale and angular in the candlelight. I've seen her biting ferocity turned on others before, but this is the first time I've been on the receiving end of Aderyn Surana's anger. As she stands her ground, as she gazes at me, unblinking, I know she has already won this battle. I know that she will go to meet with the mages, and I know the Templars-the men and women I so recently called my own people-will be ignored and vilified. I know that no one will bother to guide them to a better future.

I could lose my voice protesting, but instead I turn to leave the room.

"That is not my title anymore."

* * *

I bury my hands in my fur-lined coat as I sit on the dock, staring out at the frozen lake and the mountains beyond. Snow reflects starlight until the world sparkles, and it might even be beautiful but for the stain of the Breach against the silver sky.

I should be sleeping-tomorrow I have to organize a company of men to move out with Aderyn and her eclectic friends. Tomorrow I have to continue doing my job, even though I can feel the nightmares lurking at the fringes of my mind, even though it's been months since I took lyrium, even though I'm fairly certain I'm going to fly to pieces at any moment.

_Maker grant me strength._  For one, small, sickly moment, I think it doesn't feel like the Maker is with me much at all these days. He's turned his favor on  _her_.

I groan in disgust at my own thoughts, rubbing my hand against my pounding head. I don't want to be that kind of monster. I don't want to be that kind of man.

"Can I join you?"

I whip my head to find Aderyn standing behind me, clad in furs and moonlight. She stands with her arms crossed and her shoulders hunched, so different from the woman she was earlier today. Right now, she looks like a woman I recognize, the sometimes awkward, uncertain girl I so loved to be awkward and uncertain with.

"Of course," I murmur, though I know it's not a matter of course. Not after today. But she settles on the dock beside me, letting her legs dangle beside mine, and even after our fighting, her presence quiets my lurking nightmares by the barest of margins.

"I'm sorry I shouted at you," she whispers.

"You didn't-I don't know if what you were doing qualifies as shouting, exactly. It was...a very reasonable volume."

"I'm sorry I spoke to you like you were a monster, then. You're a good man. I know that."

I flinch. She can't know how many times I've accused myself of being that very thing, only to loop back around to all of the justifications that kept me so loyal to the Order and my commanders for so long.

"I told Leliana to send some of her people into the Templar ranks, to make it known that the Inquisition welcomes any who are unhappy under the Lord Seeker, and I told Josephine to make sure we have access to the lyrium they need to make a real choice." she says. "I know...I know that isn't exactly what you wanted."

"No, thank you. That's good-maybe it's better. I hardly ever know what's right anymore."

She huffs a small laugh. "You know, sometimes I'm  _so sure_ that I know what to do. Or at least I'm sure that Andraste wouldn't have put this mark on my hand if my instincts were bad. And other times I think, 'dear, sweet Maker, who the  _fuck_  do I think I am?'"

I laugh. "What do you do during those second times?"

"I sit on docks with my oldest friend." She looks out over the icy lake, and a smile skims the calm sheen of her features for a fraction of a moment. "I want you to know that I don't think Templars are all bad people."

"Aderyn-"

"Wait. Just...let me finish." She turns her head, and her eyes meet mine. Her whole face is painted in grayscale, eyes black in the moonlight and hair glittering in concert with the snow. "The problem isn't the people-it's the power. When you put a Templar in charge of a mage, you give them the opportunity to abuse that person. When you teach them that mages are terribly dangerous, you give the Templars cause to do so. But when you put a mage beside a Tranquil and tell them that the person they're standing beside is as good as dead, you give them opportunities, too. And there are mages who aren't above taking advantage of them.

"That's really why I didn't want to go to the Templars. Because I want to empower the mages. I don't want to purposefully put anyone at the mercy of anyone else like I was always at the mercy of everyone around me. It's not right to put innocent people in a situation where their safety is entirely dependent on the benevolence of people taught to fear them or look down on them or both.

"And maybe we'll all die in a massive inferno of drunken, magical, demonic revelry as soon as the mages get their first taste of personal responsibility, but I have to believe there's a better way. I have to believe the first step toward change is through an extension of trust. I have to."

As she quiets, her eyes find the black silhouettes of mountaintops, and my chest tightens. ' _I was always at the mercy of everyone around me'_ grates against ' _You have been granted a mercy'_ in my ears. I can't erase my responsibility in the haunted edges of her gazes, and I can't say that, given the opportunity that I wouldn't do it over again exactly the same. Because I was a Templar, and I would do my duty, even when my duty was terrible.

"Please say something," she whispers. She searches my face, and I force a smile to my face despite my guilt.

"I thought talking was never really our thing."

"Shut it, you," she says, wrinkling her nose but returning my smile.

I would tell her to make up her mind about whether I should speak or 'shut it,' but wit has never been a very comfortable thing for me. I'd probably stammer over my words. It would come out wrong and awkward and tangled.

Besides, she's smiling now, her face soft as snowfall in the night. I just want to be near the curve of her waist and line of her jaw and the point of her ears. I want to believe in her convictions, and I want to believe in  _her_. I want to believe that she is the Herald of Andraste, that all of this is for a reason, that I'm here for a reason and she's here for a reason and we're sharing this dock and this starlight for a reason. I want to share this moment with her, untouched as the lake before us.  _Maker preserve this night,_  I pray.  _Maker preserve_ _ **us.**_

"Aderyn?"

"Yes, Cullen?"

"I trust you."

She breathes deep of cold, Haven air. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! That's it for just now :) I'll see you back sometime this week, though! Thanks so, so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!!!


	12. Lost Time

****

_My demon and I lounge through my dreamings, tea in hand. In the waking world, I'm a few hours from Redcliffe and meetings and negotiations. Here, I am drowning in my own past._

" _I'm afraid to see Irving," I whisper._

" _You blame him for your Tranquility," Myrrha says._

_The air shimmers with memories I'd rather forget, the suggestion of silhouettes of myself and others. Of Greagoir and his brand. Of Cullen leaving the Tower. Of the apprentices that raped me. Of the Templars that beat me for it. Looming across all of it is a tall, bearded shadow, Irving standing aside as I suffered._

_He could have protected me. I was his own apprentice, and he let them break me._

_I was so very broken._

" _Yes. I blame him."_

* * *

In the last six weeks, I have traveled. I've tasted cakes in Val Royeaux, I've tasted salt air on the Storm Coast, I've walked and ridden miles and miles, and I've sat with Cullen under the stars. It's been a foreign and wonderful and terrifying time in this life that's only recently become my own.

But now I'm back in the Hinterlands, and the trek is beginning to feel like a familiar walk. The brisk breezes rustling through thick leaves sing of sights I've seen before. We're just across the lake from the Circle Tower, and the flowers here smell like flowers I know. After traveling to Orlais and to the sea, the familiarity of my Ferelden is at once stifling and so very comfortable.

We've become a rather large bunch, my companions and I. With the recent addition of Warden Blackwall, we're eight strong. I study his back as he trudges through the woods. His gait is a surly one, but he never trips over stray roots or scattered rocks. This woods are his habitat, as surely as it is Solas's, even though the latter slips through trees like a whisper, while Blackwall barrels through them on heavy feet.

He hadn't known anything about the Wardens disappearing, and our search on the Storm Coast had been equally fruitless. Leliana isn't going to like this news. She's had Wardens on the mind constantly since I returned from Orlais-she doesn't want them to be involved in any way. She loves the Wardens. She sees their heroism, and she is so unwilling to see heroism in nearly everyone else.

Snippets of conversation float through our group, and hardly any of it has to do with the fact that we're about to meet with the people who might help us close the Breach.

"...I could be a Qunari. I'd be a damned good Qunari, too. But I don't wanna be one. Don't like rules. But I could follow them. If I wanted..."

"...Let's hear it, Chuckles. Who'd win a fight? Cassandra, the Nightingale, or Ruffles?"

"Josephine is a contender but Cullen is not? I would have thought…"

"...Blackwall, now that you've re-joined civilized society, perhaps we might talk about your beard…"

I drink it in, letting their budding friendships wash over me like a hot bath. All the talk is strange for me - even as an apprentice, I was never part of large groups. I had friends, sure, or friendly acquaintances that I called friends. But it was mostly me and Jowan most of the time. Just the two of us. Here, I have become the central figure in this odd circle, the person who binds together all these people. I said 'follow me,' and they said 'yes.'

My mark flares, pulling me to the here and now.

I curse under my breath, and a flash of green stains the ground nearby. It's been days since I felt the scream of a rift, and the accompanying shot of pain.

"Draw your weapons! Rift ahead!" Cassandra calls.

I pull my staff from the straps on my back, and I give it a few wide turns before we top the hill. A shade slips from a green tear in the sky, and the Iron Bull roars as he cuts it down.

The gates to Redcliffe are closed behind the rift, and a few mages sling spells from the top of the walls. I fall into the increasingly familiar rhythm of battle - I'm a woman who's killed things now. I'm a woman who's used to fighting.

I step aside to avoid the swipe of a terror demon, and as I do, the world  _slows._

In front of me, Sera's strong arms draw an arrow, and I can see every ripple of every muscle. The breeze picks at her hair, and her uneven bangs drift across her forehead with sluggish precision. My own spells slide away as though I were pushing my staff through water.

I think I might have cracked.

Cassandra's teeth slide into view as she snarls and brings her sword down on a despair demon. Varric's body shifts as Bianca fires bolt after bolt. Vivienne moves her staff with the familiar motions of a Circle trained mage, all laid out with excruciating detail, like an instructor showing an apprentice for the very first time.

I take one step back.

The world rushes back into ordinary focus, and we're back to our rapid fire spell slinging and sword swinging cadence. My heart rushes to catch up, and as I point my mark at the rift, I catch Solas faltering as though time had also played tricks on him.

Maybe we've all cracked.

But I hold steady as the rift closes, knitting itself together as my skin feels as though it's peeling apart. And that's the same. That's familiar and good and grounding.

Silence follows the sealed rift, and for a moment, we all stare at each other, our gazes hanging in time.

"Tell me I'm not the only one who felt that," Varric shouts.

* * *

_We were not expecting you._

That's what the mages said as they marveled over my mark, as they marveled over the closed rift, as they marveled over my brand, as they  _didn't_  marvel over hopping time - they knew about that very well. They just didn't seem to think it was an oddity where rifts are concerned.

_What brings you to Redcliffe?_

_I have not been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave._

_As one indentured to a Magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you._

That's what Grand Enchanter Fiona said when we met her in the tavern. Yet, she was the same Grand Enchanter Fiona that met me in Val Royeaux, presumably the same one that sent me an invitation to Redcliffe. The one that dissolved the Circle. The one that traded bondage to the Templars for bondage to Tevinter. The one who seems to have gone, as Vivienne so sweetly suggested, completely and utterly insane.

_The Southern mages are under my command._

_The Arl of Redcliffe left the village._

_There is no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavor. Ambitious, indeed._

That's what Magister Alexius said when he joined us, slimy as he slid from word to word. That was before his son 'collapsed,' before his son pressed a note to my palm, before the Lord Magister took his leave to care for the very son that seems to be betraying him.

All I can do is stare as they file out the tavern door. What had my worst fear been about coming to Redcliffe? Seeing Irving? I'd been so wrapped up in my own narrow past, and now the big, wide present has reared its head in the form of time-altering rifts and Tevinter magisters. What had seemed like a near certainty - that I would be able to offer autonomy and protection to the mages in exchange for help against the Breach - has become a question of dealing with a magister and operating under Tevinter's rules.

"So, let's get this straight," Varric says. "Rifts are messing with time, our friend Fiona doesn't remember us, and the mages have signed their lives over to the guy with the pointy outfit."

"So it would seem," I say. Cassandra looks at the door in shock, and Viviene looks like she might set the next person to say the word 'magister' on fire. Solas just watches me, staring at my hand clutched around Felix's not. the others are all waiting outside, and I don't want to explain this mess to them, let alone actually  _solve_ it. Maker, what is Cullen going to say when he finds out?  _See what the mages do with their freedom? We should go to the Templars. We need the Templars._

Fuck it all to the Void and back, but this is not how I wanted my visit to Redcliffe to go.

"What did the magister's son put in your hand?" Solas asks.

"What's he talking about?" Varric calls.

I hold up the note. "Come to the Chantry. You are in danger."

"Maker's breath," Cassandra curses.

"Well, that's obviously a trap," Varris says.

"At least it's a trap we're aware of," Solas cuts in. "I say we go, unless you're much less lost than I am. It seems to be a good place to start trying to understand exactly what's going on here."

"Are you quite sure it was Fiona who invited you here in Val Royeaux?" Vivienne asks. "Perhaps it was someone else. Sometimes it can be hard to tell with elves - "

"Vivienne, if you say that all elves look alike because we're all narrow and pointy-eared, I  _will_  set you on fire," I say.

"No need to get so snippy, dear."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I am a prophet now, apparently. I can't run around rolling my eyes at people. Except of all the people I've met in the last weeks, First Enchanter Vivienne is the one that grates on me the most. She makes me want to scream and yell and shout like I used to when debates grew heated enough. Because most of the time, I cannot fathom living in the Circle and coming away with the kinds of opinions Vivienne has come away with. I cannot fathom living my whole life beside people who are helpless and and deciding that we should probably just keep on exactly as we are.

And yet, no one else reminds me of who I might have been, either. Because some of the time, when I'm not too busy being unable to fathom Vivienne, I think of all the times Irving would talk to me about transferring to another Circle for a while. A court enchanter was rather outside the realm of possibility, because nobody much likes to see elves at court, but I could have been that woman with loose limbs and a haughty expression. I could have called people  _dear._

I could have been as free as any mage in the Circle, and instead I ended up trapped in my own mind. And what I hate most about Vivienne is that she believes what I believe when I am in my darkest moods - that I deserved everything I got. I helped a blood mage escape, and that blood mage went on to the trigger the slaughter of half the people in this very village.

"Come on," I say, pushing thoughts of Vivienne and guilt out of my mind. "Let's just get the Iron Bull, Blackwall, and Sera. If we're going to walk into a trap, we should have as many swords, arrows, and axes as possible."

"Can't we just have one boring day?" Varric asks.

"No. Clearly we cannot."

* * *

My hand throbs as I close my second rift of the day. The Chantry around me spins just a little, and Solas slips beside me to catch my elbow so I can lean on him ever so slightly as I regain my balance. Sometimes, I'm grateful that Solas is conscious of the more taxing side effects of closing a rift, and sometimes I wish he would leave me alone, because I am Aderyn Surana, and I'm perfectly fine.

Across the Chantry, illuminated by sunlight through stained glass, stands a smiling man with impressive mustachios. He strolls forward, casual as you please, as though he hadn't just watched me close a whole in reality itself.

"Fascinating," he says. "How does that work, exactly?" His accent is lilting, complemented by the dramatic flick of his hand as he stows his staff on his back.

I blink, searching for some sort of answer. But all I have is that I point my hands at rifts, but only when they're singing songs that only I can hear. Only when the time is right. And then I try not to puke or collapse from dizziness, should this happen to be the second or third rift I've closed over the course of a few hours.

"You don't even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes."

I shrug away from Solas's support, closing a little more of the gap between myself and this mysterious mage. "Who  _are_  you?" I ask.

"Ah, I'm getting ahead of myself again I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?"

For the second time today, I fight the urge to roll my eyes. How do I do? The entire world is tearing itself to pieces, I've closed two rifts today, and my alliance with the mages has been dismantled by a Tevinter tongue honeyed with unknown magic. I simply stare flatly at this Dorian while he rolls quip and information from his mouth in turn. I'm disinclined to trust him fully, but it's a strange sort of trap, bringing someone into a Chantry, helping them fend off demons, and then introducing yourself in a decidedly civil tone.

Dorian continues to spout helpful tidbits - Alexius was once his mentor, Felix has been ill, Arl Teagan was forced off his own lands...and the Tevinter Magister we just met has been manipulating time. With magic. For no discernable reason.

As he speaks, the Chantry door creaks open, and all eight of us whirl around, reaching for weapons. But framed by afternoon sunlight is Felix, Alexius's son, the man who invited me here in the first place.

"Took you long enough!" Dorian calls. "Is he getting suspicious?"

"No, but I shouldn't have played the illness card. I thought he'd be fussing over me all day."

I study Felix in the dim light of the Chantry. He's a handsome young man, but there's something sickly around his eyes - Dorian said that Felix has had some lingering illness for a few weeks, but upon closer inspection, I know what's wrong with him.

I lived through the Blight. I didn't feel it like most people, but I was there. I know what the beginnings of black, veiny sores of Darkspawn taint look like. My stomach does a slow flip. Too many men and women at Ostagar were lost. Too many along the road back to the Tower.  _Nothing we can do to help,_  I'd thought.  _It isn't logical to try._

He meets my eyes and holds my gaze as though to say,  _I know that you know._ I nod ever so slightly as though to say,  _I'm sorry._

"Do you know why your father is punching holes in time?" I ask. Because it's  _logical_  to keep to the business at hand. It's not  _logical_  to worry over things that nobody can change.

"He's trying to get to you."

I take a deep, steadying breath. As if this day couldn't get any more complicated.

* * *

As we leave the Chantry, the still blazing sun shocks my eyes. Surely it's late enough for darkness. This morning feels so far away, separated from the here and now by a thousand unhappy surprises.

Cassandra sticks close to my side as we move back through Redcliffe village. "We have to leave town," she says. "Before nightfall. If this is a trap, we shouldn't give Alexius a chance to spring it while we're unaware."

"Agreed. Can we get a letter to Haven?"

"We'll have to get to camp first if we want it to remain secret."

I nod, staring straight ahead. My feet feel sluggish the closer we get to the edge of the village. After all of the uncertainty, after time magic and rifts in the Chantry and a forgetful Grand Enchanter and a Tevinter cult, all I can think about is the very thing I was most afraid of this morning - finding Irving.

Maybe my mind is simply pushing away all of the important parts of the day. Maybe I think seeing him will be a grounding influence, even if I'm grounded in bitterness and old wounds. Maybe I feel like anything that could be characterized as 'old' sounds comforting just now, because the truth of the world feels so very horrifyingly new.

"Cassandra," I say. "I have something I have to do before we go."

"What is it?"

"I need to see Irving."

I half expect her to say that we don't have time, that it's too dangerous to wait, that we need to go  _right now._  Except she nods, and her dark eyes shine with understanding. The explanations that I readied for her - that he's ill, that if I leave, he might not be here when I get back...they're not necessary. All Cassandra  _needs_  to know is what she  _alread_ y knows - that Irving was my mentor and I was his apprentice, and I need to see him.

"Do you know where to find him?" she asks.

I point to a house at the edge of village, near the old windmill. One of the spell-slinging mages that stood around that first rift had been from Fereleden's Circle, just a little older than me. I remembered her - her name was Katria, and I used to watch her cast spells when I was young, her fingers precise in their movements. I wondered what it would be like to be as graceful as she was, as beautiful as she was, as effortless as she was. I had never realized that she noticed me at all, but as soon as she saw me she started speaking of Irving.

 _His health is failing_ , she said.  _His mind is failing._   _He talks about you all the time, and he won't believe that you're well again._   _He'll be so happy to see you, if you'll just go to him. You do want to go to him, don't you?_

_Well? Don't you?_

I think 'want' isn't exactly part of the equation.

"Can you keep the others nearby?" I ask Cassandra.

"Of course."

And so I leave them behind as I walk toward the house, seven sets of eyes trained on my back. They're the people the populate my present, and every step away from them seems like a step back in time. Toward Irving, toward my old life, and toward the man that took my old life away.

 _Andraste, if you're listening, please let me forgive him._  Because that's what heroes and prophets do, right? They forgive.

My heart races, and emotions run thick under my skin. I can't pick out any threads of coherence in them any longer. It's just a constant thrumming for ten years of feelings, all stolen by the man inside, the man that I once believed to be really and truly great.

_Think of it like a good rest._

The mages outside the house fall quiet as I move into their midst. I've seen them all before, and they know very well who I am. None of them stop me as I push open the door, as I step through to a room full of mages I vaguely recognize.

"Aderyn," says Katria, the one who met us by the gates. "He's upstairs." I nod and let her lead me to him. My feet are buzzing and numb at once, like walking on pins and needles from a sleeping limb.

She leads me to a bedroom door and then slips downstairs with the others. I think she says some words of encouragement, but I can barely hear anything outside the erratic pounding of my own heart.

I swing the door open, and he's there. Irving.

Except the Irving in the bed hardly looks like the man I knew. This man sleeping in front of me is ten years a stranger to me. His beard is thinner than I've ever seen it, and the outline of him beneath the blankets is skinny and sharp, so unlike the solid old man I knew, the one that complained of belts becoming too short for his eternally expanding waistline.

He blinks at the  _thunk_  of the closing door, eyes watery and small in his sinking face.

"Who's there?" he calls. His voice is small and wavering, and I almost turn to go right then.

This isn't the man I came to see. This isn't the man I came to accuse and curse and love and forgive. This isn't  _my_  Irving. This is a sick old man who can't see well enough to recognize me.

But I force my legs to stay in place. Because isn't that what I hate him for the most? Turning his back on me when I was my most vulnerable? Taking a look at me when I was sick and broken and helpless and leaving me to fend for myself? Because I wasn't  _his_  Aderyn Surana anymore. I was someone he didn't want to see.

"It's me," I say, reaching down to the bottom of my lungs to find my voice. "It's Addie."

"Ah, child. I always knew it would be you." A smile kisses his wrinkled lips. "I always knew you'd be the one to guide me to the land beyond the Fade."

"What are you talking about?" My mind tries to filter through his words. Always knew it would be me? Land beyond the Fade? Does he think I've come back after ten years of Tranquility to smother him in his sickbed?

The truth settles slowly, like puzzle pieces drifting through molasses.  _He think we're already dead. Both of us._

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. He thought my soul already gone. He thought I was already wandering the Fade, waiting for him to kick the bucket so we could walk arm and arm to the Maker's side. Of course he did. Because believing that the Rite of Tranquility places the soul in the Fade and lets the corpse traipse usefully through our world is so much  _easier_  than believing that Templars and mages alike have been brutally abusing real people for centuries on end.

Maker, it would be so  _easy_  for me to just say 'not yet' and walk away. It would be easy for me to let him go on believing his delusions. He let me die, yes, but it was a peaceful death, and I brought it on myself, really. Helping a blood mage. Stupid, stupid apprentice. It was all very sad, but what could he do?

In his mind, right now, as he smiles at me, I wasn't abused. I wasn't beaten. I wasn't ignored. I was simply  _gone_.

"What's so funny, child? Is the sight of an old man so amusing to you?" He says it like we're going to have a good-natured bout of verbal sparring. Like we might have a good belly laugh about how very  _old_  he got.

"No. It's really not funny at all."  _Andraste grant me the strength to simply walk away. Grant me the strength to simply let an old man be wrong._ But here in this room, steeped in my own past, Andraste and her grace feels so very far away. In this room, I become a little bit more of the Aderyn that Irving sees in me, the young woman who believed too strongly in justice to let him off so easily.

"You need to help me up." His old bones struggle to sit up in his bed. "We've a long journey ahead of us, I expect."

"Irving. No."

"No?"

"Neither of us is dead quite yet."

He shakes his head. "No. No, you died ten whole years ago. I was there."

"I was made Tranquil. But I'm not Tranquil anymore." I take a step forward, and another step and another, until I'm sure his failing eyes can see the sunburst burned into my forehead.

"That's not possible."

"Yes. It is." I kneel beside him, as if I were going to take his hand and reassure him, to guide him gently to the truth. I should allow this be a tender moment between me and the old man that raised me. Maker help me, but I  _can't._

Instead of soft words of encouragement, instead of lying choruses of ' _it's not your fault,'_ I take his hand in mine. It's bony and frail and shaking, and instead of warming his cold skin, I pull his arm to my forehead. I make him trace the raised edges of the lyrium brand, and I can see dark memories of a time when he helped hold me steady as that brand stole my will, stole my connections, my love and laughter and fire and bravery.

"This brand stole the life I might have had in the Tower," I whisper, his face close enough to hear. "It took away the life you envisioned for me, and the one that I envisioned for myself. But I still had  _a_  life. Just a different one. And you did not protect me during that life."

"No. You couldn't - you couldn't feel it. I had a Circle to run."

_I had a Circle to run._

"And who scrubbed the floors of your Circle Tower? Who organized your books and enchanted your trinkets? The Tranquil were -  _we_  were - part of that Circle you were so busy running." The words are tumbling from my mouth now, like they did with Cullen in the war room. Except even then, even as I tried so desperately to cut through him with my words, I felt so very guilty for hurting him.

But I don't feel guilty right now.

"You left me to be ignored. And then raped. And then beaten. And then ignored all over again." Tears slip so easily from my eyes, fat and heavy and rolling. My nose stuffs immediately, and I know I've told too many hard truths to be able to leave this room with dignity. I'm a prophet, now. I should care about dignity.

Except all I care about is the horror in Irving's failing eyes. Because if he's horrified now, that means he cares what happened to me. All I want is for him to  _care._

"No. I didn't know. No, no, no." He shakes his head, over and over, and 'no' seems to be the only word he can summon. He reaches another shaking hand to cup my cheek, and I cry onto his fingers.

My body crumbles before him. My back curves toward the bed, and I press my face into his straw mattress. My hands shake worse than his, now, and I can't stop myself from letting out heavy sobs, born somewhere deep in my chest.

And this, I realize, is exactly what I wanted from him. I just wanted him to be  _sorry._  I wanted him to act like the man who raised me just one more time. I wanted him to act like I mattered.

As soon as I'm able, I straighten up and scrub a decade's worth of hurt and betrayal from my cheeks.

"I have to go," I tell him, because there's still a Tevinter magister in town who's been manipulated time for the purpose of trapping me here.

"No." He shakes his head some more, and he reaches for my hands again, reaches for me. "No."

I pull a clean towel from the bedside table, and I wipe clean Irving's tears.

"Yes. I do."


	13. Skulls of my Brethren

My rag-tag Inquisition is still gathered outside in a tight knot, and Cassandra splits from the others to meet me. A warmth spreads through my chest with every step she takes toward me - Cassandra is my present, my new life. She is a woman of faith and fight and focus, and she knows me as the faithful, fighting, focused woman I have become.

"Herald," she says. Her eyes search mine, and I know she can see my tears and my grief written all over my face. Except, I don't feel that grief any longer. Not like I did before. I didn't forgive Irving, not really, but I've let go of  _something,_  some heavy weight that I've been carrying in a knot in my center.

"I am fine, Cassandra." I'm not even lying - my heart beats with the steady certainty that I am Aderyn Surana, and I have it inside me to be just fine.

"I'm glad," she says, but she doesn't sound terribly convinced. She stands with her hand awkwardly perched atop the pommel of her sword, and she glances back at the others for a moment before meeting my eyes again. "I must tell you. We have...another situation."

My brow shoots up. "Beyond the Tevinter magister manipulating time to steal away my potential allies for closing the hole in the sky that bleeds demons? Another situation on top of that?"

"Yes. Unfortunately."

"And improbably." I grin, and Cassandra  _should_  snort a laugh and roll her eyes. Except she shifts her weight and her eyes in time, fiddling with her gauntlets and fiddling with her hair.

"Herald -" Cassandra's voice hitches, and I glance around her to the others, instinctively counting heads.  _Varric, one. Solas, two. Sera, three. Vivienne, four. The Iron Bull, five. Blackwall, six._ Cassandra makes seven, and I make eight. There are eight of us, and nobody seems to be bleeding. Nobody is dead, nobody is missing. Whatever is making Cassandra's voice hitch like that can't be  _that_  bad. It can't be a disaster.

"What's all this about?"

"Just after you went into the house, Sera wandered off. A Tranquil mage approached her, knowing that she was a member of your party, and led her to a house by the docks." She takes a deep breath, and I look back to Sera. I'd been so worried about someone being dead or missing that I didn't really  _look_  at any of them. She sits on the ground, head in her hands, fingers tearing at the knots in her fringe.

"What was in the house, Cassandra?"

"Human skulls. Hundreds of them."

"Maker's breath." Any vestiges of my conversation with Iriving flee to far off corners of my subconscious - the here and now are calling, shouting, dragging my focus beyond my own skin. "What are they doing there?"

"They seem to be part of some kind of hunt - the Tevinter are using the skulls to locate something called 'shards.'"

"Please tell me they belong to people who have been dead for a good long time."

"No."

"Well, whose skulls are they? How did they kill hundreds of people without anyone noticing?"

Cassandra closes her eyes for a moment, and my gut ties into knots. I've known her long enough now to know that she's praying for strength, and I know if she needs to call on the Maker, this is not a truth easily spoken. "They belong to the Tranquil who made it to Redcliffe. It seems most of them are gone."

_Maker, if you've got any leftover strength, I could use some just now._ Despite my own prayer, my knees shake. All these wounds are still so raw. Irving abandoned me, decided I wasn't there. But I  _was_  there, and I  _am_  here, and I can defend myself again. But they couldn't. Maker, they couldn't defend themselves, and nobody bothered to defend them. They had other things to do. He had a Circle to run.

I press my palm to my brand and close my eyes for eight seconds.  _Varric, one. Solas, two. Sera, three. Vivienne, four. The Iron Bull, five. Blackwall, six. Cassandra, seven. Me, eight._ Me, Aderyn Surana - healed, whole, Herald. Me, who has eight people in the here and now who would defend me, who would stand with me against any Tevinter magister who decided he wanted to take my skull for a sick ritual. And that eight certainly includes myself, because the number of defenders I had during my Tranquility was none, and that count included me, too.

I open my eyes. "Take me there."

"Herald, we'll send some of Leliana's people to clear it out. We must go if we are to make it to an Inquisition camp before nightfall."

"Send the others ahead. You and I can travel light and quiet -"

"Aderyn." Cassandra so rarely uses my first name, and my eyes fly to hers. She shakes her head. "We're not splitting up. And you don't need to see this."

"Yes. I do."

* * *

Clemence turns out to be a tall human with a handsome face, muscles held smooth across sloping cheekbones and through a full mouth. He keeps his shoulders rounded and his eyes downcast as he leads me through town. My body remembers that posture all too well - I  _preferred_  to be unseen. I  _preferred_  to be unobtrusive.

The smell of fish and freshwater fills my nostrils as we move - it's just me and Clemence and Solas this time. The others stayed behind. Cassandra said she 'wouldn't be a part of this madness.' Sera said she was never ever going back to that place again. Varric was uncharacteristically quiet about it. So Solas volunteered to take me, and we slip through the village like wisps through a forest, all three of us unobtrusive as can be.

Clemence unlocks the door when we arrive. "I stole a key when I realized this place had something to do with the other Tranquil disappearing," he explains.

"You decided this on your own?" Solas asks. "No one helped you?"

"Tranquil were dying, and I would prefer to live." His voice is flat, but my chest tightens with his words - because there's a strong man swimming inside Clemence's skin. There's a man who had enough power to float through the gaping emptiness of Tranquility, grab onto the barest preferences, and turn it into initiative. I'm almost certain I could not have done the same.

When we slip through the door, I'm fairly certain my chest will constrict so far my heart will stop. Because through the gloomy light of this boarded up house, skulls line shelf after shelf.

Their empty sockets stare at me, and in the center of every forehead is the shadow of a sunburst, the Chantry's claim on our magic and our will and our emotions carved bone deep. My breathing comes in short and shallow. I can't look, and I can't stop looking.  _Think of it as a good rest. You have been granted a mercy._

Except the bared teeth of every last skull seems to mock that notion. None of them are  _resting_. None of them have been granted  _mercy_. Because this is how we treat our most helpless fellows. These lost souls know that there is nothing restful or merciful about being crippled.

My heart pounds painfully against my ribcage, and I beg it to remember that I am Aderyn Surana, and I have it inside me to be just fine.

Solas slips through the dark to the far corner of the room, and Clemence just stands in the middle, still as any of these left over bones. I move to his side. He is one of my people, my brother, my extended web of people united only by their inability to truly unite with anyone - including themselves.

"Thank you for taking me here," I say to him. Because I needed to see it, I really, really did. Even though my throat is closing. Even though it's horrible and my knees don't want to hold me up anymore and the slivers of sunshine that squeeze through boarded windows leave streaky shadows on the worst room I've ever seen.

"I prefer to be helpful," he says, steady and even as it would be if had just helped me in the most ordinary of ways.

I nod. "I know."

"Are you very sad now that you are healed?" Clemence asks. He turns his head every so slightly, studying my features, and no doubt they still bearing the last traces of my crying with Irving.

"Sometimes."  _I'm very sad right now,_  I want to say.  _I was very sad earlier today. I've been sad in my sleep and sad when I'm awake and sometimes it feels like there's nothing left in the world but knots of old hurts and houses filled to bursting with the skulls of my brethren._ Except there's more than that, too. There's laughing with Varric or Sera or the Iron Bull; there's easy companionship with Cassandra. There's magic with Solas. There's sitting with Cullen, there's feeling that connection that fills me up and overflows from my skin and lives deeper in my core than any brand from any lyrium could go. "I'm happy sometimes, too."

"Do you cry?"

"Sometimes."

"I would prefer not to cry." He doesn't make real eye contact, but I don't mind. I didn't feel the need to make eye contact when I was Tranquil, either.

"I thought that once."

"I do not understand. Do you prefer to cry?"

"I prefer to feel."

Clemence nods, though I can't say if it's in agreement or appeasement. I don't think I would have said I prefered to feel while I was Tranquil.

I finally force my feet to move, making a slow loop around the perimeter of the house. I let my hand glow with magic, running soft light over each of their faces.  _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._ I wish I knew who they all were, and I wish even more that someone had cared who they were when it mattered. At the end of my solemn walk, Solas places a hand on my shoulder.

"Ir abelas, lethallan," he murmurs. He then places a book in my hands - small, more like a journal than anything else. "This seems to be a record of what they were doing. It would be understandable if you didn't want to know."

I squeeze the covers tight between my hands, even though my skin crawls with the horrors my imagination automatically fills into its pages. "I always prefer to know."

Solas nods, because he's like me - he prefers knowledge over ignorance, too. He knows that need to see and touch and inquire. He, above all the others, understood why I needed to come here. I needed to  _know._

"We should go," I say. "We need to leave Redcliffe."

"Wait," Clemence says. I turn, and he stares at me, impassive as ever. But 'wait' is almost a command, and commands out of Tranquil speak of great desperation. "The Tevinter want all of the Tranquil out of Redcliffe. If they are not killing us, they prefer not to see us," he says.

A lump appears in my throat.  _Save me!_ he might have shouted.  _Don't leave me here where they'll stuff my skull on a shelf in an abandoned house._ I walk toward him and take his hands in mine, even though he doesn't squeeze back. I offer him connection even though he can't return the favor.

"Of course. You'll come with us. To the Inquisition."

"I am a skilled apothecary. I can be helpful. I prefer to be helpful."

"You will be very helpful, Clemence. Thank you."

* * *

We make camp in the shadows of an abandoned fort north of the Crossroads. We didn't arrive until well after nightfall, but it's strange to think that we might have made it earlier had I avoided talking to Irving. I could have escaped all the afternoon's crying. I could have escaped the knowledge that weighs so heavily on me right now, the images of branded skulls that flash behind my eyes. But I also would never have known that Clemence existed, and he would have been stuck in Redcliffe with nowhere to go.

And now he sits on the edge of our camp, still rounding his shoulders so that he doesn't seem so very tall. It's all worth it, I think, because we took him away from there. I have eight people to defend me right here in this camp, and in Redcliffe, he had none.

While Cassandra and Varric argue about something insignificant - the relative usefulness of sleeping on pine needles in camp, this time - I slip to the walls of the fort, hands and feet finding the rungs of a worn ladder.

My muscles scream with the fatigue of the day as I climb up. This morning, I thought I would have new allies against the Breach by now. I thought Irving was the only thing I had to worry about. Instead, my time with Irving feels more like a blessing than anything else that's happened today. My mind swims with Tevinter magisters and time magic and Tranquil skulls.

"Oy oy, Herald."

A smile touches my lips. Because already on my perch, where I thought to be alone, is Sera. She sits atop the old wall, her feet swinging over the wall, her face scowling into the starlight.

"Hello, Sera." I move closer to her, sharing in the view of forests and distant mountains, each painted in inky stains in the night.

"Tonight's got no right to be so pretty. Not after the day we had," Sera says. "World's all just one big pot of piss, innit? We deserve some rainstorms. Or clouds or some shit. Don't actually want to get rained on. That'd be worse."

"I think the stars are nice." The words slip from my mouth, and they taste as absurd as they sound. I should have something profound to tell her.  _It's okay that the world has gone to shit. Andraste is whispering in my ear, and she says it's all going to work out._  That's what I should be able to say. If I were a proper prophet, I'd be able to say that. I'm pretty sure a proper prophet would have anticipated some of what happened today, too. Hell, anyone less idiotic than me might have - I can't believe any longer that I waltzed into Redcliffe with nothing but promises and expected to walk out with an army willing to point all their magic at a giant hole in the sky.

_Silly foolish elven girl,_  Andraste seems to be whispering now.  _You didn't think everything would be so easy as telling people 'follow me' and them saying 'yes,' did you?_

"You're a strange one, Herald," Sera says. "And I still think the stars are full of shit." She plucks a pebble from the wall beside her and tosses it into the black space between her feet and the ground. Her scowl deepens almost to a snarl, and I remember seeing her on the ground, curled up after seeing that house full of skulls. "We should probably be down there sleeping with the rest of this lot."

"I don't know how much sleep I'll be getting tonight."  _You need rest._  That's what Myrrha would say. Except I don't want to see her. Not tonight. Because she's a demon, and I shouldn't be talking to her at all. She's the reason people like Sera hate magic. She's the reason mages are feared. And without all that fear, there'd be no Circle and no Templars to be killing each other and dealing with Tevinter at all.

And if I told her all of this, she's just say it again:  _You need rest_. I wish I was more confident of my ability to rest without her.

"How could you, after time going all funny and meeting a magister and finding a house full of all those skulls?" She throws another rock, this time lobbing it hard into the distance. "Solas read some of that damn journal out loud, you know that? All those bones, all those people dead, and none of them even put up a fight. They all just...died. And those magisters saved their damn skulls for finding weird shards and...I dunno. Makes my head ache."

I wince. I read some of that journal, too, stole glances when nobody was looking - because as much as I needed to  _know_ what was happening to my old poeple, I didn't want any of my new people to suspect what I was up to. But people, helpless people, were killed over and over to find shards, keys to some mysterious temple. There was no guilt. No remorse. Because the Tranquil aren't  _people._ Of course not. They can't  _feel_.

"I didn't like it either," I say, as if that were enough to express the disgust that crawls over my skin and the fear that tightens in my gut. Because if things were just a little bit different, my skull could have been one of those skulls.

"Then why'd you go? Why'd you have to go  _look_  at it?"

"Sera -"

"You know, I joined this stupid Inquisition because you glow, right? I don't like magic. I don't like the woods. I like arrows. And killing baddies. But there's been a lot more  _talking_  to baddies than killing them so far, and a lot more trudging through the woods than that. And between you and Elfy-elf and Madame Snooty-Arse and Magister Pointy-Robes there's been  _a lot_  of magic. I didn't sign up for that. And I didn't sign up for houses full of skulls of poor sods who didn't even care they were dying.  _That's not what I came here for._ "

She scowls into the night, her amber eyes narrow and fierce as they catch flashes of moonlight. In that moment, she looks unbearably young - and I remember that she was a girl during the Blight, that now she's barely older than I was when Greagoir pressed that brand into my forehead, and I was barely more than a child. She's taller than me by half a foot, and broader and strapped with more muscle than any elven woman has a right to, but Maker, she looks  _small._  Small compared to the Breach, compared to time magic and magisters and rebel mages and Tranquil skulls. Small compared to me, maybe. I squeeze my marked hand, digging my fingernails into the part of me that glows.

"Sera, you don't have to stay. We can get you back to Haven to collect your things, and then you can go wherever you want."

"But this is  _important,_  right? You're the Herald of Andraste."

Right now, I know, deep in my marrow, that if I opened my hand and let that green light sing softly into the night, she would stay. She would follow me. Mother Giselle was the first person to say it to me, not so far from this very spot.

_If you want a peacemaker, you should talk to Cassandra._

_Andraste did not put that mark on Lady Cassandra's hand. She put it on_ _ **yours**_.

That was the first day I realized that I could inspire people with the mark, with the story of my rescue from the Fade by Andraste herself. I didn't believe it then, but I believe it now. Maybe not that Andraste physically grabbed me by the hand, but that there is someone out there at least watching and guiding me. That I am  _meant_ to have this mark. That it's all for a  _reason_.

But as I look at Sera, who is so very young, I cannot bring myself to flash my mark and claim prophet-hood to make her stay. Because maybe, if I weren't the marked one, I wouldn't stay either. The skulls of my brethren haunt the edge of my mind, and I can't make her stay to see more of that, over and over. I can let her go. Let her forget. I can decide how to inspire; I am not simply a passenger on the unstoppable vessel that is my left hand.

"There's going to be more magic. And I have a feeling there's going to be more horrible things to see before all this is over. You don't have to be this kind of important." I say.

And I expect her to say that yes, that all sounds very bad, and she's going to leave in the morning and never, ever look back.

Except, she just thinks for a moment. Then she swings her legs to the right side of the wall and stands up on the ramparts, giving me a lopsided smile. "You trying to get rid of my, oh great Lady Herald? You need me. I'm the only one of your lot that knows about hungry bellies and the normal kind of stupid. Everyone else is all, 'I grew up fighting dragons' or 'I like taverns and crossbows and money' or 'Elf elf elf elfy elf things.' And then you've got a randy Qunari and a stuck up mage and I'm the only one who's  _normal_."

"I think you missed Blackwall."

"Well, he's just all beard, isn't he? Not much to say about him."

I laugh, and she laughs, even though I didn't expect to laugh today. And I think, somewhere hidden in that laugh, Andraste whispers something else.  _Silly foolish elf girl. You didn't think it would be as easy as that, did you? Saying 'you don't have to stay,' just for her to say 'I'll be going now?'_

"All right, then. Good. It's all good, innit? Or it will be, when we fix it. We'll put the Timey-Wimey Wanker in his place, you'll stop them from chopping off any more heads, and I'll put some arrows in some arseholes' arseholes. You going down to sleep some before we head off to save the world again?"

"I'm going to stay up here a while longer," I say, because I need to be alone. But I give her a smile and she gives me a wink and I know she'll be fine in the morning.

I lean against the old ramparts when she climbs down the ladder, stone smooth under my skin. Today feels like one of the longest days of my life. I woke in a different world, one where Grand Enchanter Fiona had invited me to a meeting, one where the mages would be my allies, one where the Breach might soon be closed. In that world, there are Tranquil in Redcliffe, and I haven't really spoken to Irving in years. In that world, time moves in one direction, and I am the most myself that I have ever been.

All of that has changed since sunrise this morning. Right now, I can't help but think about the other days in my past when the world unraveled: the day I woke up in the dungeon in Haven and the day I woke up after my Harrowing.

After my Harrowing, there was no satisfactory ending. There was no rest. But when I faced down the Breach, when I let my mark sing sweet songs of forgotten pain and hatred, there was an end. There was a goal. There was something that I could reach for. And afterwards, I slept for days. Andraste gave me that.

And now, all I have to do is look to the Breach again. It's a little farther away this time. There will be more sleepings and wakings between me and this end. But I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I just have to keep tackling these obstacles one at a time.

I just have to have faith that I am Aderyn Surana, and I have it in me to be just fine. I have to have faith that at the end of this mess, the Maker will grant me  _rest._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled about whether or not I should go this direction with this chapter after all - I've been a downer. I know this. And this...did not help. But Addie's tough, and she can take it. So I stuck to the plan. Buckle up, kiddos :)
> 
> Also, Sera is super hard, you guys.


	14. Held Tight

My cheeks burn with cold as we approach the last bridge on the road to Haven. Across the lake, chimney smoke curls through the Inquisition heraldry flying above our overflowing village. But here on the bridge, dozens of people haul supplies from wagons or bicker over maps or crane their necks to catch sight of Seeker Pentaghast and the Herald of Andraste, returned from Redcliffe without allies in tow.

In front of them all, next to a cart full of chickens in little cages, my Templar waves away soldiers and messengers as he cranes his neck with all the rest.

"Aderyn," he says as soon as we're in earshot. He jogs the last few paces to us, leaving the crowd on the bridge behind. As soon as he's in front of me, he tries to catch my eye. What had Varric said on the way to Val Royeaux?  _You don't look at me like we're star-crossed lovers._  And maybe we do look at each other like stupid children sometimes, but I don't know what I'll find in his gaze today. ' _I told you so_ ,' maybe. ' _Let's go to the Templars_ ,' maybe. ' _Your fragile mage-mind fills me with undue worry over the state of your mental well-being, and I'm afraid you might become possessed at any moment,_ ' maybe.

I train my eyes firmly past him, toward the Chantry at the top of the hill, because I don't want to see any of those maybes written on his lovely face.

"We should go to the war room," I say. "There are too many straining ears here."

"Aderyn -" He hesitates, and his hand reaches out to me, fingers brushing lightly against the back of my hand. For a moment, I think he might squeeze my hand in his, might lace his fingers through mine. But he pulls away, and I pull away. I don't want to feel those doubts and maybes through his touch, and he sighs with heavy, frosty breath. "Yes, we have much to discuss."

So Cassandra, Cullen, and I leave the others behind as they head to the tavern, and we make the climb to the Chantry. Cullen hovers close, and I steal quick glances at him as we walk. Concern clings to his tightened brow.  _Are you all right?_  he asks. He knows that the world is falling to pieces. That there are no mages behind us because they've signed their lives away to a Tevinter magister. That I've failed after that big speech about empowering the disempowered.

"The Tevinter is here," Cullen says eventually.

"What Tevinter?" Cassandra asks. "Not Alexius?"

"No, no. Though this one has quite a lot to say about that one. This one's name is Dorian." Cullen grimaces, tightening his hand over the pommel of the sword at his hip. "Can we trust him? He claims to know quite a lot about the situation in Redcliffe."

"We only spoke to him once, though he helped us close a rift, and he didn't try to kill us while he had us cornered in the chantry." I shrug. "What does Leliana have to say? Does  _she_  trust him?"

"She can find nothing that contradicts his story."

"Then I have no reason to disbelieve him." I don't know if he want's to hear that I'm relieved. I want to trust Dorian - because if I can trust Dorian, the world gets just a little bit less uncertain. If I can trust Dorian, there are answers that I can cling to.

"But he's…"

"A mage?"

"I didn't say that."

_Did you have to?_  I want to ask.  _Are we going to pretend you trust mages now? Trust people like me?_

"We should take our victories where we can," Cassandra says. "Dorian wants to help. I say let him."

"As if we could stop him. He waltzed into Haven last night and settled in like he owned the place." Cullen shakes his head as we move into the Chantry, the world suddenly shrouded in candlelight shadows and incense. "I thought Mother Giselle was going to drop dead."

My eyes find the Revered Mother off to the side with a group of frayed-coat children, singing the Chant.  _O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places._   _O Creator, see me kneel…_

"I'm glad to see she still lives." I slip Cullen a little smile, but he doesn't return the favor. He's still searching my face like I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve.

"What kept you?"

"What?"

"On the road. Dorian arrived last night, but you left Redcliffe at the same time, did you not?"

Cassandra catches my eye, but I shake my head.  _Not yet._  I don't want to tell him about Irving or the skulls  _yet._  "Later, Cullen," I say.

"Did something -"

" _Later,_ Commander," Cassandra interjects. She starts toward the war room, and Cullen and I follow behind. I can feel his eyes all over me.  _What's going on? Why won't you look at me? Is it because you know I'm right now? Are we going to the Templars now?_  Except maybe I'm not giving him enough credit. Maybe he's not thinking about the Templars at all.

Inside, Leliana and Josephine stand together across the table from Dorian. "Ah, the Herald of Andraste joins us at last. Fashionably late?" Dorian says, twirling a moustache between his fingers for effect.

"I suppose. I'm glad you made it to Haven, at least."

"Wasn't easy. My feet are freezing, and I had to dodge a rift on the road. You might want to take care of that."

I stretch my hand, letting little aching flashes of light flicker into the room. "I wiggled my fingers at it this morning."

"Oh, good. You're a very handy sort of prophet."

"That's what they tell me." I turn to Leliana and Josephine. "Have we gotten word from Alexius?"

"He sent a letter asking for an audience with the Inquisition," Josephine says. "He asked for you by name."

"Did he say anything else?"

"He was so complimentary of you that we are certain he wants to kill you," Leliana says.

"Which is all the more reason why we should forget this nonsense and go to the Templars," Cullen says. My eyes snap to him, and now it's  _his_ turn to avoid my glare. Because  _of course_  he was thinking about the Templars.

_We've talked about this,_  I want to shout at him.  _We're not going to recreate an army of oppressors. Remember? We sat under the stars, and you said you trusted me. Remember?_

"Redcliffe is in the hands of a magister," Cassandra says. "We cannot let this stand."

"We don't have the manpower to storm Redcliffe Castle," Cullen says. "Not by a long shot."

"So the alternative is to let Alexius have his little power trip and continue playing god with time itself? Yes, that sounds like a very reasonable plan." Dorian rolls his eyes. "Your Commander has been going on like this since I arrived."

"Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden," Cullen insists. "Aderyn - if you go in there, you'll die. I won't allow it."

Now we find each other across the room. His amber eyes shine, and they plead with me.  _Abandon this nonsense_.  _Don't die like this._  And for a moment, mages and Templars and the Breach shrink away. It's just us. Him and me, and he doesn't want me to die.

"I don't intend to die," I say.  _Not yet. I have a Breach to close first. Then maybe the Maker will grant me rest._ I banish the thought. I can't think about what might come after the Breach. I just have to think about getting there. I just have to keep going long enough to close it.

"But if we don't even try to meet Alexius, we lose the mages, and leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep," Leliana says.

"Even if we  _could_  assault the keep, it would be for naught. An  _Orlesian_  Inquisition's army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war. Our hands are tied," Josephine adds.

"The magister -"

"Has outplayed us," Cullen finishes. Cassandra deflates beside me, and Josephine massages her temples with slim, tanned fingers.

"Must we be so very  _final_  about it all?" Dorian asks. "Surely the dread Inquisition can do better than that. Isn't there an Arl trying to get his castle back? Can't we partner up with  _him_?"

"No," Josephine says. "After he was displaced, Arl Teagan rode straight to Denerim to petition the crown for help. Queen Anora will grant it, and he will not need the Inquisition's aid."

For a moment, the impasse hangs in the air. My chest tightens - maybe Cullen is right. Maybe Alexius has outplayed us. Maybe we should let Ferelden take care of the Tevinter in Redcliffe and focus on the Templars.

Maybe this is Andraste telling me that I was  _wrong_.

"Wait," Leliana says, lifting her bright blue eyes beneath her hood. And that small word sounds like something from Andraste herself.  _Wait, little elven prophet,_  she says.  _Do not despair just yet._  "There is a secret passage into the castle. An escape route for the family. It is too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through."

"It's too risky," Cullen says. "Those agents will be discovered well before they reach the magister."

"That's why we need a distraction. Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly?"

"No," Cullen says. "Absolutely not."

Except Leliana isn't looking at Cullen anymore. Her eyes meet mine, lovely and mysterious and smiling. My heart swells - she wants an allegiance with the mages as much as I do. And this could work. A slip of an arrow, a knife in the dark. I can act the bait. I am not defenseless, and I am not afraid.

"Yes," I say simply.

"All right then! Good plan!" Dorian says. "I'll be coming along, of course. Your spies will never get past Alexius' magic without my help. I know what sorts of tricks he like to play with."

"No. You'll be in too much danger," Cullen says. "We can still go after the Templars."

"Stop it, Cullen." Those words are harsher than I mean them to be. Or maybe they're not, because I don't much want to hear the word 'Templar' again for a good long while. "This is a good plan. Let's make it happen."

"As you say," Josephine says. "Why don't we all break for food and drink so you and Cassandra can get cleaned up from the road, and we'll reconvene here in a few hours? Altus Pavus, if you'd be so kind to join us, your insights about Alexius' likely defenses would be most welcome."

Josephine sounds tired, and I'm trying not to let my feet drag as I leave the room. This is a plan. It's going to happen. All I have to do now is set my feet down the path and keep moving. One foot in front of the other. Over and over and over again, until I'm standing face to face with the Breach.

"Aderyn -" A strong hand grabs my elbow, stopping me as I turn toward my little room in the chantry.

"Cullen, if you say something about Templars right now, I'm going to be very upset."

"No - I…" He sighs and releases my arm, and I turn to him. In the dim chantry corridor, dark circles sit heavy under his amber eyes. "Forgive me. I did not sleep well last night."

I give him a soft smile. "I know the feeling."

"You were late," he says. "When a Tevinter mage arrived and said you should have been just ahead of him, but you weren't here, I thought…"

I shake my head. "I'm here. We were just a little delayed."

"What happened?"

I chew the inside of my cheek for a moment, looking away. "We should talk."

* * *

I lead him to the dungeons, because I know we can be alone here. The air is cold, but I'm starting to like the chill of Haven on my skin. Torchlight flickers around us, and I guide us into a corner, into a dim little world where it's just him and me and no one else. He waits for me to speak, even though I think I'd rather just stare at him and let him stare back forever.

"We weren't held up on the road." The words are think in my mouth. "We were held up a half a day in Redcliffe."

"Did something happen with the magister?"

"No. I…" I bit my tongue. I don't want to tell him about Irving. That was my time, for me and no one else. And I'm not sure how to explain to him exactly why I was so angry at Irving without sounding like I'm accusing Cullen of the exact same thing.  _He left me behind. You left me behind. I was alone, and no one protected me._ And I'm not angry at Cullen. He was broken when he left, too. And no matter what the Templars say about themselves, it was never his job to protect me. He had to move on, to heal himself. Irving wasn't broken - he was the one who broke me. And Irving should have  _stayed._

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," Cullen murmurs. I'm not sure when our bodies shifted so close, when the space between us grew so very narrow. He reaches out a hand and tucks my road-knotted hair behind my ear. I might have leaned into the soft touch of his callused hands, but he pulls away quickly, as though his mind didn't quite know what his hand was doing.

Despite his words, he doesn't know what 'whatever' means any more than he knows the roamings of his own hand. So I skip ahead to the second hiccup, to the part that cannot have anything to do with him.

"We met a Tranquil mage in Redcliffe. He came back with us to Haven. Clemence." I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to order my thoughts. "He showed us a house. Full of skulls."

"Skulls? Whose skulls?"

"Other Tranquil. It seems the Venatori, the cult that Alexius is in, has been using them to locate something they call 'shards,' and they are the keys to something, but I do not know what." I keep my voice steady. Tranquil. I will get it out without crying. I will tell this truth for all those branded souls lost in that boarded-up house. "There is a log. They were summoning demons to possess the Tranquil before they killed them."

"Maker, Addie."

_Addie._ Cullen never called me Addie back in Kinloch Hold, when I was Addie to so many people who knew me as a little girl. He hasn't been calling me Addie lately, either. But the moniker slides from his lips so easily, and when he says it, I cannot help but feel echoes of my younger self. And that younger self  _feels_.

Tears slip from my eyes and my hands shake and my heart pounds and I just want to sink into the ground and never, ever get up. We can go back to the way things were that first day. I can be Aderyn Surana, Tranquil mage, locked up in the dungeon beneath Haven's chantry. They can leave me there to rot. They can leave me there to  _rest._

"I would prefer not to cry," I choke out, and I'm sure my legs won't hold themselves up any longer. Because Irving is dying and I have been Tranquil and there are magisters in Redcliffe and the skulls of my brethren have been left behind on dusty shelves.

But Cullen pulls me close, wrapping me in strong arms I'm not sure I ever really thought I'd be wrapped in. He smells like fur and leather and fire smoke, and I could breathe him in for an eternity, live in this chilly, private corner until the Maker takes us to his side. I cling to his clothes, fingers knotted in fabric with aching intensity, and I press my branded forehead into his chest.  _Hold me tight,_ I will.  _Just hold me tight forever._

I'm not sure I remember the last time someone held me like this. Maybe it was Irving, so very long ago. Or Jowan, when we were more siblings than friends. In the last decade, it's been all whips and fists and unwanted, crawling hands. My new companions are not the kind to embrace their prophet, and I'm not the kind to initiate this kind of hug. Not anymore. But this touch, this simple act of holding and being held, is the closest thing to the divine that I've experienced since becoming the Herald of Andraste.

I tremble, and he holds me steady. I cry, and his hand strokes my hair. How many times have I wondered what this would feel like? It feels better than I ever could have hoped. It feels like  _home_.

"We'll stop them," he whispers. "These Venatori. I don't like this plan, but if this is what we need to do, we'll stop them."

"I know." My arms find their way around his neck, and I rest my hands in in his thick curls. He pulls me closer, even though I didn't think we could be any closer at all. He's still thinking about Templars, I know. He still doesn't like this plan, I know. But none of that matters right now. It's just him and me in this corner of a haven in a haven. I'm drowning in him and he's drowning in me and that's  _enough_.

"You have to be careful."

"I will be."

"I'm worried about you. Terrified, actually."

"I'm just tired, Cullen. I'm just so very tired."

* * *

My bed sings to me when I finally sink into it. I've had a bath, I've changed my clothes, I've had a solid Haven dinner of crusty bread and venison stew. The planning stretched well into the night, and the stars have been out for a good, long while.

Leliana drew a rather remarkable map of Redcliffe Castle from memory, and Dorian pointed out all the places where her agents were likely to run into trouble. Josephine coached me on stalling tactics should we need them, and Dorian told me all sorts of ways to keep Alexius talking.

Cullen mostly scowled while Cassandra chastised him.  _This is the plan,_  she said, over and over.  _If you can think of something better, we'd all love to hear it._

And I listened. Learned. And I grew more tired, so tired that my bed has become a blessing to rival drowning in Cullen's arms.

I have been avoiding the Fade because I've been avoiding Myrrha, but today I slip across the veil like sliding into a well-worn boot - easily and with so much comfort.

* * *

_Myrrha looks at me in our gauzy sanctuary, indistinct as the edges of her red hair. Her blue eyes shine sadly, and she walks to me slowly, on tentative feet._

" _You're so tired, little sparrow. I can help you, but you look so tired."_

" _I missed you," I whisper, and I hate that the words are true. But I only have to make it to the Breach. I only have to get the mages to Haven. I only have to keep going to a little while longer. Then I can rest. And for now, I can pretend. I can stay here with my demon, and she can get me through the next tomorrow and the one after that._

" _We're not pretending," she whispers. "You're all dark shadows, and you need to be light. I can help you, little sparrow."_

_She pulls me into her arms, and I let her. But here I am faded, formless, and this embrace is not divine._


	15. Windmills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little different -- I played with a few perspectives and an extended metaphor that could probably be tighter than it is, but I had fun! Plus, you get a teeny tiny peek at my Warden, who I love to the Void and back <3

* * *

_Leliana_

* * *

The windmill in Redcliffe Village stands in ruins, stones from the top tumbled down around the base. My agents have been slipping through for the last three days, digging out rocks and dirt to uncover the entrance to the passageway I took with Alistair and Caja and Wynne and Morrigan and Sten.

That was ten years ago. Back then, the windmill still wore its sweeping arms. They turned in wide arcs above us, over and over, even as a cascade of corpses came down from the castle to slaughter the villagers. And I was there to stop them, my arrows a flurry of defense of the innocent against the wicked, because for that brief moment in my life, I had convinced myself that there were truly such things as "innocent" and "wicked." And I believed it so strongly that I thought the turning of the windmill was a sign from the Maker, telling me and whoever else might be looking that we would persevere. That the Blight was the worst thing he could possibly throw at us, and that even through a Horde of darkspawn, we'd all keep turning and around and around and around.

Sometimes, I cannot believe it's been ten years since I was that girl, that Leliana, Lay Sister of the Chantry, wielder of righteous arrows. I cannot believe that it's been ten years since I laughed at one of Alistair's jokes or fought with Morrigan or bantered with Zevran. That it's been ten years since I first met Caja Brosca, my Warden, my friend.

And yet, other times I can't believe that it's been  _only_  ten years since I was that skinny slip of a girl. Could I really have seen signs from the Maker in something as simple as a windmill that hadn't yet fallen down? Could I really have been so naive to think that it wouldn't? I check my wrist sometimes, to make sure there's a little outline of an arrow is still inked into my skin. One night on the road, Caja convinced me to let her stick me with needles and draw on my arm.  _The pain's good for you,_  she said.  _Besides, I've done it a thousand times, and only one sorry duster lost a limb. That's pretty good odds._ Without that little arrow, I'm not sure there would be anything left to point to that optimistic girl I so briefly became.

My eyes flit to the bridge nearby, where Aderyn Surana approaches Redcliffe Castle. She walks with her back straight and her expression serene, and I cannot think of many people who could manage such poise in the face of such danger. If Andraste truly did choose her, she did well, I think. Ten years of Tranquility have made her slightly odd, but she has also lived up to every account I can find of her from when she was an apprentice. One of my people even found notes about her, written by the very same Duncan who recruited Caja for the Grey Wardens, noting her talent. He ultimately decided she was a 'soft soul,' and thus perhaps unsuited for a life among the Wardens, who are not noted for their softness.

"She does manage to look rather holy." Dorian of House Pavus, Altus of Tevinter, speaks beside me - rather more loudly than he intends, I'm sure. He follows my eyes to the bridge, fingers brushing thoughtfully against his chin.

"We are all holy in the eyes of the Maker, Altus Pavus."  _And we are all wicked in turn._

"It comes in  _degrees_ , I think. And she's got a great deal more than her fair share. Me, on the other hand, I'm a terrible degenerate." He finishes with a twirl of his moustache, but I can sense his fear, even in the dark. "Even so, she almost makes you think the Maker might be on our side, doesn't she? We might actually close this Breach and live happily ever after."

"The Maker does not often reward piety or righteousness with a happy ending."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're wonderfully optimistic?"

I ignore him. If Dorian needs sarcasm and humor to fill the hollow spaces in him left by fear, I will let him have it. I need no such comforts.

My eyes shift to my agents perched around the windmill. My lips curl, and I whistle out a birdsong. A nightingale's call.

The first of my agents answers by slipping through toward the passage. After a count of five, another follows. Twenty file through, and Dorian and I watch in silence as they go. One by one by one, each of them holy and heathen, righteous and wicked, innocent and corrupted. And I know that for them, for us, the Maker's rewards will not look like justice.  _In their blood, the Maker's will is written._

Dorian goes last, just ahead of me. And as I lead these men and women to their possible deaths, I take stock of the all women  _I_  would have followed to death and back, worthy or not. Their faces flit through my memories in wide circles, like the arms of a windmill.

_Marjolaine._

_Caja._

_Justinia._

And now, there is a fourth name, a fourth face, steeped in holy purpose:

_Aderyn._

* * *

_Aderyn_

* * *

"My friend! It's so good to see you again. And your...associates, of course," Alexius says as I approach him on his stolen throne in this stolen castle. Beside him stands the son that betrayed him, the son whose skin bares the sick pallor of the Blight.

I'd wanted to come alone. Alexius asked for me alone. But Cullen, Cassandra, and Leliana had rather strong feelings about the safety of such a maneuver. As I stand here, flanked by Tevinter soldiers and a magister whose sickly sweet tone screams of his desire to end me, I'm glad to have Cassandra, Solas, and Varric within arms reach.

"I'm sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties," he continues. His sliding Tevinter accent sneers through his lips.

From the side of the throne room, Fiona steps forward, and my heart breaks just a little for her straight back and defeated eyes. Any assertion of power now is an act of desperation. A obligatory show for a woman too proud to simply stand meekly aside.

"Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?" she asks.

"Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their fate."

That heartbreak sparks into anger in my chest. Because this is it,  _this_  is the problem with the Circle. We are so used to our fate being in someone else's hands.  _Of course_  Fiona leapt into an alliance with a more powerful group. For what else do mages know but an indentured life? How can we operate without someone above us to fight against? And  _of course_ she doesn't trust Alexius, shouldn't trust Alexius, but what does a Circle mage know but serving masters she cannot trust?

"The Inquisition welcomes the Grand Enchanter to these negotiations," I say, even though we mean to kill the magister and his men, even though these 'negotiations' will never truly take place. "I trust you have no objections?"

Alexius shrugs, because he knows it's meaningless, too. We're going to kill him, or he's going to kill us, and there's no use in arguing over who gets a front row seat to all the spectacle.

"The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange?"

Cassandra's hand is clutched on the pommel of her sword. Frost swirls at the edge of Solas's fingers. Varric's muscles are coiled and ready to grab for Bianca.

I keep my shoulders back and banish all thoughts of magic.  _Not yet. Leliana isn't here yet._ "The Inquisition has many backers among the Orlesian nobility," I say, parroting the script that Josephine taught me back in Haven. "I'm sure you can find suitable compensation."

Alexius bristles. "I'm not sure what the Orlesian nobility have to offer that I don't already possess."

For a moment, he looks at me, and I look at him. I'm not sure what he's waiting for, exactly. Why keep talking like this is a real negotiation? Why not spring his trap? Leliana isn't here yet, so I'm glad he doesn't seem ready to let go of pretense...or maybe not, because this stalling means he's waiting for something, too, and I haven't the slightest idea what that something might be.

And then, Felix shifts. "She knows everything, Father."

"Felix. What have you done?"

My heart sinks. Pretense is over.  _Come on, Leliana. Now would be the time to save us._  Cassandra pulls her shield from her back and draws her sword.  _Or Cassandra. Maker, if anyone can beat a castle full of soldiers, it's Cassandra Pentaghast._

* * *

_Cassandra_

* * *

Everything seemed to be going so well until Aderyn died.

What an absurd thought.  _Everything was going so well until the only person who could conceivably stave off the end of the world was turned to ash and dust before my very eyes._

And now I sit in a dank dungeon under Redcliffe Castle with Varric and Solas in adjacent cells, the three of us together once more in the face of a terrible darkness. What is it that Fereldens say?  _The Maker has a sense of humor._

"Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke and I got purposefully arrested so we could throw a surprise birthday party for our friend the guard captain in her own prison?" Varric calls to the stone walls. He's been telling stories constantly for the entirety of our imprisonment, for a whole two weeks.

"No, but I do think the fact that you were the guard captain's friend explains quite a lot about Kirkwall's reputation as a pit of lawlessness," Solas quips.

"Aveline is one of the good guys," Varric says. "She only made exceptions for family. And only little exceptions."

"Harboring apostates and malificarum was considered 'little' in Kirkwall, then?"

"Well, little for Aveline. If we'd been crooked guards or embezzlers, we'd never have seen the outside again. And we kept her out of  _most_  of our illegal activities."

"You miss her," I say, because the truth is plain in his voice, and I'm much too tired to hold back my truths today. Perhaps I will be much too tired to hold back truths for the rest of my no doubt short existence.

"Yeah, Seeker. I miss her." Varric sighs, and the bars on his cell groan as he shifts position. "What about you? You miss anyone on the outside?"

I grimace. It's no secret that I am not so easily given to friendship, and though I've had the privilege of forging a few deep bonds in my life, I cannot think of a living soul that I would speak of with the fondness Varric employs when he speaks of any one of his Kirkwall friends.

"All of my closest friends are dead," I say. And it's true. Anthony, my brother. Galyan, the only man I ever allowed myself to care for. Beatrix, who I served faithfully. Justinia, who I gave my whole heart. All dead, every one. My life looks very small and lonely from this cell, and it all keeps turning around in my head, the same small, lonely story over and over. I believed in them until they died, and then I found another and  _they_  died, and the world got worse and worse as it went.

But there are good people still out there, I suppose. People who will try to find a new way to close the Breach. Josephine and Cullen and the rest of the Inquisition will stand as long as they can.

_Maker grant them strength,_ I pray. But it will take more than strength to fight Alexius and his Elder One.

It will take a fresh miracle, and I'm not sure the Maker is ready to grant another.

* * *

_Cullen_

* * *

Cassandra would have been able to rally the troops.

That's all I can think while demons and twisted Templars and lyrium-sick mages flood Haven.

Everyone is dying; blood is melting the snow. My sword arm aches as I fend off another Shade and another and another, over and over and over again.

A blow to my thigh makes me fall, and my sword falls from my grip. There's nothing I can do - my men fall, too, one by one and all at once. Dying. We're all dying.

Aderyn died, too. I swore before the Maker that I'd finish what she started before I joined her at His side. I'd close the Breach. But I'm breaking that promise, now. The Breach spreads across the sky now, further and further, larger and larger everyday.

I couldn't find another way. I failed her. I failed myself and my men and my Maker and His world.

_Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide._

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

_For there is no Darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that he has wrought shall be lost._

My eyes see only the Breach as a sword bites into my neck, and in that final sliver of a moment,  _all_  that the Maker has wrought seems so very lost.

* * *

_Leliana_

* * *

_Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide._

It's been two years. Still I cling to prayers, silent and otherwise. Still I sing the Chant.

" _You will break,_ " my captor growls.

" _I will die first,"_ I reply. This exchange is as automatic as as any verse in any book in the Chant of Light. He will torture me next, and I will endure. Because that's what I do. I survive where others fell. I am hard where others were soft. His knife knicks my flesh.

Small hurts at first, waltzing toward larger hurts. We both know the steps so very well.

This time, someone interrupts our dance.

Footsteps on flagstone announce her arrival, and a ghost runs through the door. Her leathers are splattered with blood and her staff tinged with fire. That fire looks like hope, and that face looks like a dream.

_I shall not be left to wander the roads of the Beyond._

I hook my legs around my torturer's neck, and I snap it. He falls, and Maker, I know I will never dance to his tune ever again.  _For there is no Darkness in the Maker's Light._

"You're alive," I breathe when all is quiet once more. Aderyn Surana stands before me, looking fresher than any person I've seen for years. I used to worry that she looked tired, but now my face is a corpse's face and 'tired' means something rather different than it once did.

"Yes," she says in her simple way, face as tranquil as her brand would suggest. She unlocks my shackles with gentle hands, and I remember what grace looks like. The Tevinter mage that died with her - Dorian, his name was - stands beside her, but I hardly see him.

"Do you have weapons?" I ask, because the only thing that matters now is killing Alexius. This is the little bit of good I can still do.  _Maker, guide me, but I can do just a little bit more good._

She nods, and that's all I need.

"Good. The Magister is probably in his chambers."

"You aren't curious about how we got here?" Dorian asks.

"No."  _If I learn that you've been traipsing through the countryside, I might kill you now, and that would be a terrible shame._ Besides, it's all the same story, over and over again. She is a hero, and I will follow. As the Maker wills.

"Alexius sent us into the future. This, his victory, his Elder One? It was never meant to be."

I consider for a moment how much aid Dorian would be in a fight. I really could slit his throat right now if it would mean he'd stop answering questions I never asked.  _It was never meant to be,_ he says _._  I glance at my wrist, where there is the faded, wrinkled outline of an arrow still etched into my skin. I know he's wrong - it was  _all_ meant to be. All this hardship. All this death. All these heroes I've followed and lost, all this hope I've held and let go. This is just one more turn of the windmill, and each time, I am closer to falling down.

"If we can get back to the present, we can stop Alexius," Dorian continues anyway. "We can make sure none of this ever happened. This doesn't have to be real."

I pull a bow from the wall, testing the string. My arms are weaker than they've ever been, and every movement sends pain skittering through the very core of my bones. Still, I pull an arrow from a barrel, and I draw my weapon with a sweet motion even my tortured arms remember. I aim at the rack I've been strapped on too many times, and I let the arrow fly. It buries itself deep in the wood, and I take a deep breath, letting the power of weaponry fill my lungs and gathering enough strength to face Dorian once more.

"Enough," I say. "This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered." I fill a quiver with arrows, and sling it across my back. "It was real." Every turn of this long-crumbled windmill was  _real._

Aderyn Surana, though - she is not like Dorian. She looks at me, at this room, at this future, and she  _sees._

"I know it was real," she says. She reaches for me, her hand briefly grasping my wretched hand. Her eyes meet mine, and she looks so  _young_. I never thought of her as young before, because she was only a few years younger than me, and she had been through so much. Now she's a few years younger than a few years younger than me, and she has not seen the world fall to ruins.  _'So much'_ means something rather different than it once did, and in this, her eyes are innocent.

But she says she knows it was real, and I believe her. When she turns and leaves the room, I follow as I've followed before.

_Marjolaine._

_Caja._

_Justinia._

_Aderyn._

For the first time in a long time, I think maybe this windmill could be rebuilt.


	16. Faded

_For my country. For my son._

_It doesn't matter now._

_Ruin and death. There is nothing else._

_The Elder One comes._

Words echo through my head as the portal in front of Dorian and I grows, as demons pour through the doors before us. I can't take my eyes off Leliana, arrows flying off her bow with wicked precision, and lightning crackles across my skin as I fight the urge to fight with her, battle the urge to battle with her.

Dorian grabs my shoulder, his grip painful against a fresh bruise.

_You move we all die._

_You have as much time as I have arrows._

_Though Darkness closes, I am shielded by Flame._

My whole body aches. Dorian's spell rages through me, starting at my mark and moving to my every extremity, to my very core. How many rifts did I close today? Too many. Alexius kept opening them, and I'd already closed three others. It's too much. It's too hard. The last time I closed too many rifts at once, Cullen held my hand as the pain passed, and then we laughed of old times.

In the here and now, Cullen is dead.

_Andraste guide me; Maker take me to your side._

An arrow pierces Leliana's shoulder, and still she fights. The demons close in, and still she fights. A Venatori mage grabs her around the neck, and still she fights. If Dorian opens this portal and we manage to unravel this future, will the Maker still take this Leliana to His side?

_I suffered._

_It was real._

I pray that he does, because she deserves  _rest_.

* * *

_Light_.

For a moment, that's all I can see. Just bright, white light. A song fills me, swells through me, the sound and its vibrations felt as much as heard. There is nothing in this between space but me and light and music.

And then, all at once, the world appears.

Dorian saunters forward as though we just went for a jaunty stroll through Val Royeaux, a smug smile on his lips.

"You'll have to do better than that," he says, and Alexius falls to his knees.

Dorian is full of his success, and I wish I could be fill myself up with that, too. But I search the room for familiar faces. I lock eyes in turn with Cassandra, with Varric and Solas, with Leliana lurking in the shadows. Their eyes are full of questions I cannot answer right now.

Alexius' men are still dead around the throne room. We've won, as we planned to win. The magister sprung his trap and we defeated it.

_It was real._

I turn to Alexius. "I would prefer if you came peacefully."  _And I would prefer if you do it quickly, because I'm not sure how much longer I can remain standing._

He looks up at me from the ground, eyes wide. This man broke the world. Or tried to. Or once became a man who broke a world that no longer exists. But he is also a man who loves his son above all else, and that is the same. That is  _always_  the same.

"Felix," he says.

His son moves toward him, kneeling beside him. "It's going to be all right, Father."

"But you'll die." The words are wretched and small, and I can still hear a different Alexius screaming as a different Leliana cuts his Blighted son's throat.

Felix nods. "Everyone dies."

The two of them rise up, and Felix follows as two of Leliana's people escort his father from the throne room. It's such a quiet scene, and my mind can't reconcile it with the future I just saw. Shouldn't there be demons pouring through the doors? Shouldn't we be dying, shouldn't Leliana be wrinkled and shrinking, shouldn't Varric and Solas and Cassandra be red and sickly around the eyes?

It wasn't quiet. It wasn't peaceful or graceful.

_It was real._

It still feels more real than the here and now.

"Well," Dorian says. "I'm glad that's over with." I just blink at him, because I'm not feeling glad. We just killed his mentor in a hellscape full of red lyrium and demons and death, and it doesn't feel over with at all.

"Can anyone explain to me why both of you are covered in blood now?" Varric calls.

"I would prefer to sit down first." I wince as much at the sound of my own voice as at the pain in my hand. Cassandra moves to my side, slipping an arm around my waist.

"Easy," she says. "We will get you to a healer."

"I am not wounded." Light flares around my clenched fist, and I groan as I lean most of my weight onto Cassandra.

"That looks...unpleasant." Dorian's hand strays to his moustache, worrying over ends uncurled by battle.

"Why is nobody explaining what just happened?" Varric steps forward. Solas trails behind, quiet as a shadow. Leliana and Fiona cling to the edges of our group, and through the haze of the pain in my hand, they're so fuzzy I can barely see them.  _Explain._ I would laugh, except I  _hurt._

"Well, Alexius tried to remove us from time. Instead he sent us two years into the future, where the the Breach had made it all the way to Redcliffe, you fine people were being used to grow red lyrium, and there was this fellow called the Elder One come to kill us all." Dorian sighs before continuing, as if for dramatic effect. "But the two of us unraveled the whole plot, with the help of your future selves. It was all very dashing."

"What?" Cassandra sounds shocked enough to drop me, but she keeps a firm hold on my shaking form. Maker, I wish I wasn't shaking.

"I think we need to do this a little more slowly." I try to take a quivering step so we can get away from the throne room, the room that was so recently steeped in demons and death. My feet don't cooperate, and I trip more than step forward, Cassandra's steady presence the only reason I don't fall to the ground. "I would...I would prefer to speak elsewhere."

"You need a healer," Cassandra repeats, but I just shake my head. I don't think a healer could help me. I just need to sit, I need to be outside in the Hinterlands, to have Cullen hold my hand. I just need Cullen to hold my hand.

Instead, Cassandra helps me toward the door. I don't know where she thinks we're going to go - this isn't our castle, and there are probably still Venatori agents lurking beyond shadowy corners.

The others hover around us, Dorian feeding morsels of our misadventure to a drooling Varric.

_We were transported to the dungeon._

_The castle was crawling with demons and Venatori._

_We made it all go away, like magic. Well, literally with magic._

Solas pulls my free arm around his shoulders and helps Cassandra practically drag me away.

"How many rifts?" he asks.

"Too many."

_It was real._   _The Elder One comes._

Sharp bootfalls clang against shifting armor, and Solas and Cassandra stop dead with me between them.

I blink away starry pain, trying to make sense of what's happening. Soldiers file into the throne room around us. I don't know where my staff is - I think I might have dropped it in that nightmare-future. I try to summon a spell to my hand, but I can't even find the smallest of flames.

_I'm just tired._ _I just need rest._

"They're soldiers in Ferelden army," Solas whispers to me, as if he can see my confusion.

_Oh._  No wonder they're not attacking us. No wonder we're not dead.  _Yet._  We're not dead  _yet._

A woman follows the soldiers, and when stops, they stop.

"Grand Enchanter Fiona," she says.

"Queen Anora," Fiona replies, stepping ahead of us, my people, the Inquisition.

_Oh._  I straighten up as best I can - I am the Herald of Andraste, and my work is not yet done. I should look strong for the Queen of Ferelden, I should look strong for these soldiers. They should go home to their families and their court and say 'I saw that elf who says she will close the Breach, and I believe she can.'

It's just pain. It's just exhaustion. I can ignore pain and exhaustion. For a little while.

"When I granted you and your mages sanctuary, I thought it was understood that they would not force my people from their homes." Anora looms over Fiona, her simple Ferelden silks and simple Ferelden bun a complement to her very Ferelden brand of nobility.

"Your majesty, let me assure you, we never intended any of this…"

"Your intentions ceased to matter when my people were threatened," Anora snaps. "I am rescinding my offer of sanctuary. You and your followers will leave Ferelden at once." The finality of her words hangs in the air.

"But...we have hundreds who need protection. Where will we go?" Fiona sounds so tired.  _You can keep going a little longer,_  I want to tell her.  _The Maker will grant us rest soon enough._

"The Inquisition would welcome the mages as allies against the Breach," I say. Cassandra stiffens at my side, but I just pull away, force my legs to work on their own.

Anora turns to her gaze to me for the first time. On cue, my mark flares, as if there could be any doubt about who the elf with the Tranquil brand surrounded by agents of the Inquisition could be anyone else. She studies me like I'm a strange creature, and I let her. I've grown accustomed to being a strange creature for studying.

"Allies?" Fiona inquires.

"Yes. Allies." She stares at me as though I spoke in some ancient Rivaini dialect. "Equals," I clarify.

"T-then I accept. Graciously." Fiona's shoulder visibly relax, and for a moment I can see a hint of the woman she once was, the one that Irving spoke of with the utmost respect.  _You could be like her one day, child. You have that kind of power in you._  And now, in this here and now, we  _are_  alike - I am tired and she is tired and we are trying so very hard to keep from falling to pieces.

"Good." I turn back to Anora, who lifts her chin as if she could grow even taller. "The Inquisition would be most appreciative if you could allow just myself and a small handful of retainers to spend the night in Redcliffe Castle."

"You're the one they're calling the 'Herald of Andraste,'" she says.

"Yes."

"Are you...wounded?" Her eyes travel down my damp, dirty, bloody clothes.

"A Tevinter magister just made an attempt on my life."

"And he dragged you through a sewer, did he?"

"Perhaps." I watch her levelly. I'm too exhausted to be intimidated by anyone, not even a queen. For who am I to be intimidated? I just went to the future and gave the world another chance to thrive.

I'm not terribly inclined to tell Anora exactly what happened today. There would be too many questions, and I'm not sure I know the answers well enough to tell anyone about them, let alone a Queen who I'm fairly certain isn't even  _my_  queen any longer. I don't want the Inquisition to seem like the kind of danger that brings time jumps and apocalypses - and that's assuming she'd  _believe_ me.

"And you are Tranquil?"

"Not anymore." My mark flares, and my knees buckle beneath me. Cassandra and Solas rush back forward, catching me before I fall to the stone floor.

"Please, your majesty," Cassandra says. "We would be very grateful for a place to rest for the night."

"Give them some damn rooms, Anora." A man approaches from the hall, red hair graying at the edges. "I am Arl Teagan Guerrin, and I for one am honored to meet the Inquisition that just captured a magister in my castle with a handful of agents and a great deal of gumption."

"Thank you, Arl Teagan," Leliana says. "It is good to see you well."

"Sister Leliana," he says, surprise plain in his eyes. "This is twice now that you've reclaimed Redcliffe for the Guerrins. I am in your debt."

She smiles, and I almost believe that she's glad to see him. "A debt which could be paid in a hot meal and a bed, I think."

"You drive a hard bargain for a Chantry sister. Come now, your majesty. Let me take care of  _my_  guests."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding as soon as it becomes clear that the room they're taking me to is just down the hall. I'm not even sure my feet touch the ground before Solas and Cassandra lead me to the edge of a bed, and Varric, Dorian, and Leliana follow behind.

"I am fine," I protest. Except for the fact that I just embarrassed myself in front of a Queen. I should probably feel less fine about that, but I find that I don't mind that so very much.

Solas takes my hand in his, spreading my fingers to he can examine my glowing palm. His touch is so different from Cullen's was. Solas is looking for something to heal, but all I need is rest. Rest and someone who I can laugh about old stutters with. But Cullen is either far away or dead today, depending on which reality we're talking about.

"Does this happen to you often?" Dorian asks. "The whole excruciating pain bit, I mean."

"No."

A servant walks in with a pile of clothes, and another follows with a jug for washing. Everyone falls silent until they scurry away.  _Where did the servants come from? Did these people really bring them to storm the castle?_ I almost ask about it, but no one else seems to think their presence is odd.  _Maybe everyone brings servants with them when they retake a castle._ What an odd thought.

"I didn't know it still troubled you like this," Cassandra says.

"It doesn't." I grimace as her brows shoot up toward her hairline. "Well. Not often. I just...moderate the number of rifts I close in a day. Usually. I did not have much opportunity for moderation today."

Something unspoken screams from Cassandra's dark eyes.  _There won't be much opportunity for moderation with the Breach, either._  I pray that she lets that statement stay in her eyes and away from her lips. Because I don't want to tell her that I know that very well. I don't want to tell any of them that after I face the Breach, I don't much expect to walk away. I  _very much_  don't want to tell them that I'm looking forward to the rest.

_Andraste, guide me; Maker, make them all stop looking at me like I'm going to break into teeny tiny pieces at any moment._

"It's not important right now," I say. "We have to talk about what happened. What will happen. Or...the things that might happen that we have to stop."

"What things would those be?" Dorian asks. "Oh right, all of them. But look, we're back here! That's different. Problem solved."

"No. That's not enough," Leliana says. "You two get cleaned up. I will talk with Arl Teagan - we should seem gracious, after all. Besides, I have not seen Queen Anora for some time, and she doesn't seem to recall the role I played in securing her throne. I should like to remind her. We will meet back here when we are not covered in blood and dirt, and I will be sure that everyone gets something to eat." She sweeps out of the room, taking down her hood and putting on her most charming smile as she goes.

"Well, all right then. Good plan. Glad we had that talk." Varric grumbles at the door. "You okay, Herald?"

"I am  _fine._ "

"All right, all right. See you in a bit to talk about the end of the world. Again."

Varric is the first to leave, and the others file out behind him. Cassandra is the last to go, and she lingers at the door.

"Aderyn?" she says.

"Yes?"

"I know we've disagreed on how to handle the mages, but...I know why you offered Fiona what you did."

"Cassandra -"

"No. That's not what I meant to say. For a moment today, I thought…" She sighs, dragging fingers over her short hair. "I thought you were dead. I didn't enjoy that thought very much."

"I am fine, Cassandra." I shift on the bed, and her features almost soften as she looks at me. Maker, she looks so  _real_ , but I can hardly reconcile this Cassandra with the one poisoned by red lyrium who also looked so very  _real_. And that Cassandra, the one that sat in the dungeon for years - that Cassandra never got to have this conversation. That Cassandra really did watch me die. I never got to tell her that I was just fine. "I really just need a little rest."

"You keep saying that," she says. "I hope it's true, my friend."

A smile touches my lips, even though a knot forms in my gut.  _Just get to the Breach. I'm only getting to the Breach._  That's what I've been telling myself for so many weeks. That's what Andraste chose me to do - to point this mark at the sky and close up the hole in the sky, but not before I made sure the world would mend itself a little better than it had been before.

Except hearing Cassandra call me friend makes me just a little guilty for thinking about the Breach as the very end of my story.  _I'm sorry, friend. I don't want to leave you behind, but I only have so much left to give._

* * *

Working out how the world might have ended takes a long time.

The night is nearly over by the time the others are satisfied by our talks. A massive headache pounds through my temples, but at least the mark doesn't hurt so badly by the time I sink into Redcliffe Castle's foreign sheets.

* * *

The Fade hums.

My sanctuary here, my soft place where Myrrha waits, flickers in time with my footsteps. Soft blues give way to sharp greens and angry reds and stormy grays as I move forward, eyes searching for my demon.

"Myrrha?" I call. This place has never been empty before. It is her place, she makes it for us, for rest. I don't come here without her. My heart pounds at the thought that she just might not be here. That she might be gone, destroyed, and our place left scarred and broken by the Fade at large.

I should be relieved that I might be rid of her. Instead my hands quiver as I take another step and another, faster and faster until I'm dashing through lines of tables with tea and books and candlelight, searching for any sign of my dear, dear demon.

"Myrrha?" My voice is small and broken, but the whisper seems to echo through the whole Fade, so that I'm sure that every spirit and every demon from here to the Black City can hear my plea.

A lightning storm of angry reds screams across the sky. I skid to a breathless stop beside a tumble of blankets where we've spent countless nights singing with each other, our voices dancing through pretty tunes I never had to teach her and I never had to learn.

"Little sparrow?"

I whirl around, and behind me, shimmering in front of a floating window, is Myrrha. Or maybe the suggestion of Myrrha - she's more a smear of red hair and shadows than a full version of herself.

"Where were you?" I ask.

"I was...I am…" She blurs even further, until she's more literal flame than flame-haired elf. "Something happened here. Something large and rending and others are paying attention. I...I cannot stay."

"Wait -" I move towards her, floating and fade-like, almost flying on feet that don't even feel like they belong to me anymore.

She flickers away to nothing, and without her the Fade darkens. I am alone.

The sky is a storm of reds and greens that flash like lightning. The Fade is a place for singing and rest for me, a place for dangers hidden by curtains of sweetness. Not today. Today, the curtain is lifted, and the frightening parts are laid bare.

I crane my neck to look straight up, and Cassandra flashes across the sky, her hair shaggy and her eyes red, face covered by the bars of a cell that never should have been.

I turn a circle, feet floating, fleeting, free and flying. A different Cassandra replaces the old one, this one framed by a castle door. She looks to me with her fierce eyes, and she mouths a single word:  _friend_.

I turn again, and the throne room of Redcliffe Castle floods with demons.  _Again:_  Anora lifts her chin, every inch the queen.  _Again:_  Alexius screams over the finally still corpse of his long-dead son.  _Again:_  Felix kneels before his father, speaking truths his father never wanted to learn.  _Again:_  the Breach hangs over Redcliffe.  _Again:_  only stars.

I spread my arms wide, stopping dead out of my wild spinning. I drink in this reflected starlight, let it sink through my skin, allow  _this_ reality to take root in my bones.

I push away from the ground, and my arms are wings and my hair is feathers; I am the little sparrow, flitting through the Fade. I fly to the night, to the here and now and  _this_.

And when I spiral downward on wings I've somehow always had, I am elsewhere.

Redcliffe Castle stands solidly around me, the courtyard tidy and tended and bathed in moonlight. I take a perch atop a low wall, stone cool beneath my avian feet.

A wolf stands in the center of a garden, and he tilts his head at me at an angle that tickles my memories.

_Who are you?_  I ask, and the words echo across the castle courtyard, even though I don't have lips to speak them.

The wolf looks up, and I follow his gaze. A lifetime flashes before us, one that is and isn't our own, one that I saw in person, but I know that the wolf did not.

It ticks by with wild ferocity, horrors and hope and horrors again, all reflected over stars and sky.

And when we look at each other again, I am me and the wolf is Solas, though I think somehow we were more ourselves a moment ago when we were the wolf and the sparrow looking high to the Faded night.

"Aderyn," he says, surprise heavy in his softly accented voice. "What are you doing here?"

_I am a mage, this is the Fade,_  I mean to say. That's the truth, isn't it? Except I do not normally venture to corners of the Fade that do not belong to me and to Myrrha. I do not wander as Solas wanders - I didn't even know that I could. Except, when I open my mouth, entirely different words come from my mouth.

"I needed you to know it was  _real_."

He hesitates, eyes full of questions. He's sharper here, all his angles more pointed, eyes brighter, so much so that the Solas I know in the waking world seems fuzzy and indistinct by comparison.

"I understand now," he says.

"The Elder One comes," I reply. "You need to know that, too."

"We will fight him together."

_No._  "I just need to make it to the Breach."

Something flickers across his face, something I can't quite identify. Confusion, maybe. Understanding, maybe. It doesn't matter. I spread my wings again, and I soar to the sky, wing beats taking me to quieter spaces. I just want quiet. I just want stillness. I'm just  _tired_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers,
> 
> I really debated about whether or not I'd write this note. If I were writing a book that you'd get in one big chunk and read straight through, I wouldn't write this. I'd let the words speak for themselves. This would all come out in a couple of chapters, there would be a big moment. We'd all cry together, probably. Or I'd hope you'd cry maybe, if I wrote it well enough and it resonated with you. And all would be as it is in the story, and that would be it. You wouldn't see me maybe taking this all a little extra serious in the feels department.
> 
> But that isn't where I'm at. I'm on the internet, and I'm feeding you a story with gaps in between updates. Gaps where life happens. And you don't get to know where my head is at during those gaps. You don't get to know where Addie's head is at, or where she's going. So I'm going to take my fanfic feels a little seriously for a second.
> 
> I guess what I'm saying is...right now she's in a dark place. She's tired. She thinks she knows the measure of her strength, and she thinks it doesn't extend far beyond where she is right now.
> 
> But she is stronger than she knows. I don't usually talk about myself on the internet like this, but I have been in that place where tomorrow seemed too big for me, and where I didn't know how many more tomorrows I could do. But I was stronger than I knew, too. And I promise you: if you are feeling tired and hopeless, you are stronger than you know. You have so many more tomorrows in you than you could ever imagine.
> 
> Be well, guys.
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Jorie


	17. Precarious Meetings

I stand in the snow, watching a rift shift above my head in soft waves. Dorian kills the last demon with a cleanly formed fireball, and I wait for him to square around me, as Vivienne and Solas have already done.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

"Ready to get out of the damn cold," Dorian says. "Shall I count this time? Or maybe I'll write a clever little ditty and we can -"

Vivienne sighs, and the weight of her magic flows into that glowing mark on my palm. Her magic is something powerful and steady and a little bit dangerous, as if it would only take a little slip of her iron control for it to run rampant through the universe like a hurricane or an earthquake.

Solas joins her, and his magic is smoother, his control deeper, his confidence greater. His magic is a river where Vivienne's is a storm, and the two of them dance a wild dance deep in my muscles.

I open my palm for a moment, flashing my screaming mark at Dorian before I clench my fist closed again. With the extra power, my hand pulls toward the rift as though the Fade were tugging it on a rope, and it takes all the strength in my shoulders to keep my hand at my side until Dorian joins them.

He groans. "You people are no fun at all."

His magic flares and dances as he points his hand in my direction. It's beautiful and fanciful and not nearly so self-conscious as Vivienne's. This, I think, is a difference between southern mages and everyone else - our fear runs deep in our own power. Our strength is massive on the surface, but our control runs only skin deep.

And yet, all three threads of magic work together as I point my hand at the rift. Almost as if it were nothing, it winks away. Quick. Painless. Simply gone. I pull my hand away, and Dorian, Vivienne, and Solas stop their spell. The air stills, the world quiets. All is as if there were never any hole in the sky at all.

We've been doing this all day, clearing all the rifts between Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes using Solas' newly devised magic for powering up my mark and closing the Breach. We need a clear path for the mages and soldiers to walk tomorrow, and my mark and I need to be fresh for facing the Breach.

This is the last preparation - and the final test. If I can close a series of rifts today with little pain and little effort, then Solas' spell is a good one. By all measures, it seems to be working.

The others are very excited about this development, because if this works, maybe I can walk away from the Temple on my own two legs. Maybe I won't collapse for three days again. Maybe I won't simply Fade away to nothing, carried to the Maker's side on the soft wings of a purpose finally fulfilled.

I've been pretending to be excited, too.

"I think that's the last one," I say, shaking out my hand. The steps to the Temple stand in ruins before us, the crumbling walls reaching toward the mountaintops like the skeleton of some great beast - like the skeleton of the world as it was, where Templars kept mages locked away tight, far away from the world at large.

"How are you feeling, darling?" Vivienne asks. "Ready for tomorrow?"

"I am fine." I crane my neck to the Breach above, to the sickly green of my destiny. It swirls in broad, slow circles.  _I just have to make it to the Breach._  Maker, I've almost made it to the Breach. "I am ready."

"Well, good." Dorian twirls his staff before stowing it in the straps on his back. "Because Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine have promised all the mages that tomorrow is the day, so that's settled, I suppose. Unless they've all killed each other by now because your lover-boy has decided that every single one of us is a secret abomination sent by a horde of pride demons to set fire to all the tunics in Ferelden."

"Funny," Solas says. "I've never known any pride demons to be so concerned with fashion."

"Have you seen Ferelden tailoring? Do you have eyes? Any being with any pride at all would make an attempt to destroy what these barbarians try to pass off as shirts."

I make a show of rolling my eyes despite the irritation that itches at my chest. Cullen has been terrible since we arrived back from Redcliffe. Jumpy. Nervous. Quick to anger. The Cullen that waits for me in Haven holds echoes of a man that I barely recognize, of a man who called for the annulment of Kinloch Hold even after Uldred was dead. This Cullen is a creature of hatred born from overwhelming fear, and I never wanted to know that these shadows still lurk in the darkest corners of the man I spent my girlhood mooning after.

"Cullen is not my anything, let alone my 'lover-boy,'" I say. Not right now. Not when I need him to be my...something. Not when I'm hollow and hurting and all I want to do is hide in corners with him so I can cry in his arms.

"Oh, darling. He's a Templar. You can't be so cross with him simply because he wants to do his job."

I stalk past them, making my way back toward Haven with or without Vivienne, Dorian, and Solas at my back. Why argue? I just need to make it to the Breach, and I'm almost there. I spare them just a few more words as I trudge through the snow:

"Cullen is not a Templar anymore."

* * *

Solas jogs to catch me even as Vivienne and Dorian wander behind, arm in arm like old friends. He tries to catch my eye, but I look straight ahead at the road to Haven. My vision has narrowed to just the next day, the next hours. The last hours before I can  _rest._  Right now, I only have to put one foot in front of the other. One breath, and the next and the next.

"Whatever it is that you want to say, say it." I still won't look at him. I still keep my eyes trained away.

"Say something? But you would just scowl and keep stomping through the snow. I know a futile effort when I see one, lethallan." His voice carries the cadence he adopts when he's very pleased with his own wit. Except I don't feel much like joking about my recent escapade in the Fade, and I'm fairly certain that's what he wants to discuss - because that's what he's been wanting to discuss at every moment since it happened.

"What do you want to know? Whether or not I casually hop to other people's dreams regularly? I don't. Curiosity sated?"

"Not entirely."

I finally turn my head toward his. He is soft today, every inch of him the gentle and lonely apostate that came quietly to Haven to investigate the Breach in the sky. I can't quite put to words what is different about the Solas of the Fade and the Solas of the waking world, but the difference is marked. I wonder if he would say the same about me.

"We can worry about magic and the Fade after the Breach is closed," I lie.

"Aderyn." Solas glances over his shoulder to Vivienne and Dorian, but they're blithe and joking, oblivious to anything but the prospect of clear skies tomorrow. "In the Fade, you said you just had to make it to the Breach."

"Maker's Breath, Solas." Tears prick at the edge of my eyes, and I will them to stay there, contained and invisible. My dream-self had been far more open about my thoughts than my waking self ever has been. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to talk about the fact that I think I might drift away tomorrow with the last of Breach. That I might crumble to dust without the gravity of destiny to hold me together. That I  _hope,_ I  _pray_ , that the Maker will grant me  _rest_.

"Lethallan, I know that closing rifts had been causing you pain, but this new spell seems to have stopped that. Yes?"

"Yes." I hold my breath for the rest. For him to tell me that I have so much to live for, that there's no reason to give up.  _Maker, but I don't want to have this conversation at all._

"I know you've been afraid, but there's no reason to think that anything like last time is going to happen. We have the help of hundreds of mages, now. And if it does, Adan and I have become well practiced at keeping you alive despite any trouble with you mark." He smiles, encouraging. Soft. More puppy than wolf. "You shouldn't worry too much."

"Oh."  _Oh._  "Ma serannas, lethallin. I will try not to worry." A smile finds my mouth, and a blush heats my cheeks. I could sing praises to the Maker right now at his misunderstanding. He thinks I'm afraid to  _die_. He thinks I'm afraid of pain or illness or sleeping for days and then never waking, when all I can think to be afraid of is more darkness, more mornings, more walking and breathing and aching. All I can think to be afraid of is the very thing he's trying to assure me is going to happen.

_Silly Wolf,_  I want to tell him.  _I know the scope of my destiny, and it is almost time for rest._

"What are you two grinning about on this fine day?" Dorian calls, looping an arm easily around my shoulders, his body tall and solid and human beside mine.

I lift my face to the cold and the clouds, drinking in the sweet tang of imminent snowfall. I loop one hand around Dorian's waist, and lift my marked hand in front of us.

"Fate."

"Oh darling," Vivienne says, settling in on my other side. "If anyone has any right to grin about fate, I suppose it should be you."

* * *

Back at Haven, any easiness that might have passed between the four of us falls to the chaos of the army camp outside the village walls.

A rabble mages shouts across the snow, pressing toward a small group pressed around Haven's walls. I crane my neck to see what's happening, but I'm too damn short to see around dozens of shoulders to whatever commotion is happening at the center.

"Well, good thing everyone is staying calm and resting up," Dorian quips.

_One more crisis. One more fight. That's it. That's all this is._ I push my way forward, past men and women in robes who might have once ignored me as I slipped unobtrusively through the halls of their home.

At the center, Fiona stands taller than I've ever seen her. Her shoulders square to her adversaries, and nearby torchlight shines against all the strands of silver in her hair. This is the Grand Enchanter that Irving once so admired, that impressed a Grey Warden, that left the Circle and came back to lead it.

Right now, she squares off against Commander Cullen Rutherford, who looks every bit as formidable as she does.

"Did you think we wouldn't  _know_?" she shouts. "We were promised freedom here - an alliance!"

"I will not simply sit back and allow abominations to run wild through Haven." Cullen stares back at her, and the man that lingers behind his eyes is the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall's infamous Gallows, clear and hard and unflinching. When light catches on his armor, I can almost see the shadow of an absent Sword of Mercy. He is the Templar and she is the mage, and no matter how angry she gets, unreasonable she gets, he will remain calm. Self-possessed. Always in  _control_.

The sight makes my stomach turn.

"Abominations running wild? We haven't had a single incident of magical violence since arriving, and you're talking of a plague of possessed mages?"

"Simply because we've been lucky so far does not mean that danger has evaporated."

"You know what's dangerous? A man with a sword. I don't see you rounding up all the swords in the army camp, do you?"

"No, but I am making sure my officers keep the peace!"

"Is it keeping the peace when disguised Templars start attacking innocent -"

"Nobody was  _attacked_  -"

"Pinned them to the ground! They were simply -"

"They were gathering a huge amount of lyrium -"

"They were in charge of handing it out for the Breach tomorrow!"

"They were uncooperative -"

"And why should they be endlessly cooperative with anyone who decides to accuse them of wrongdoing?"

"No one was even injured!"

"My people were -"

The shouts swirl around the air along with the evening's flurries. Mages press around me, and nobody seems to notice that I'm here or who I am or that I might be someone they might hesitate to jostle. I think I can hear Vivienne and Dorian somewhere behind, but their words are lost to the tumult of voices that bang against my ears.  _This isn't working_ , they seem to say.  _It'll never work. The world will not let the mages be. We can never be free._

I struggle to find my voice, to call them to stop, to inspire them, to...something. To be the prophet I'm still meant to be, maybe. To be the glue that holds this Inquisition together for one more night, maybe. To make everyone just  _shut up._  Except, all the noise echoes through the hollowed out corners of my body. I've scraped all the strength from my outer walls. My powerful lungs chords, the ones that used to fill Kinloch Hold with anger and laughter in turn, have no air left to lend my voice - and even if they did, my mind heart has no words left to inspire.

_Andraste grant me mercy, but I have nothing left to give._

Something flies overhead and hits Cullen square in the face.

It take a moment for me to realize what it is that smears across his scruffy cheek, brown and smelling and steaming hot in the icy air.  _Horseshit._  The reality of it settles inside my hollowed spaces. Someone threw horse shit at the Commander of the Inquisition. Even as time seems to bend to stillness around this reality, the chaos around swells. Someone through horse shit at Cullen,  _my_ Cullen, who laughed when I was hurting and held me tight as I wept.

"Enough," I croak, but nothing happens, no one hears. Cullen's hand reaches up to wipe the mess from his face, but it clings to him like a wound, on his cheek and in his hair, splattered on the fur of his pauldrons.

_Silly girl,_  Andraste seems to whisper.  _Did you think I wouldn't give you the proper motivation to step forward and shout one last time?_

I force one foot forward, and then the other. "Enough," I repeat, and both Cullen and Fiona look my way. But the crowd still shouts, and this time a rotten apple flies off a nearby hand, landing squarely against the wall behind us.

One more time, something else flies into the air. I don't wait to determine what it is, exactly. Something unpleasant, I know. Something disgusting and unworthy and unimportant. I lift my hand, and lighting arcs through the air to whatever projectile was meant for Cullen or Fiona or me. My magic makes solid contact, and the thing explodes to the finest dust.

" _ENOUGH._ "

Silence skitters across the crowd like a bug atop a pond. They crane their necks to look at me, and my name trickles through the quiet.

_The Herald._

_Aderyn Surana._

_Can you see her?_

_The Herald of Andraste?_

_That's little Addie Surana. That's her._

I approach Cullen on liquid legs. One foot in front of the other. I only have to make sure we don't descend into chaos before we get to the Breach. Except part of being  _finished_  was making sure the mages were on the path to freedom, wasn't it? I thought I'd done that, but I didn't. If my own people, if  _Cullen_ , can't be trusted to fight for them, how can I go to the Breach tomorrow knowing the world will be just fine without me? And yet, my eyes find Cullen's like they always did, and our gazes fit together like the matching puzzle pieces they always were.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

He nods, though his scarred lips curls in disgust.

"Herald - I must inform you that your Commander has not been upholding the terms of our agreement with the Inquisition. Templars were instructed to patrol our ranks without our knowledge, and today six of my people were viciously attacked while they were simply preparing to face the Breach."

_Of course they were._  Cullen, Cassandra, and Vivienne had wanted to set up these covert patrols from the moment the mages arrived in Haven. I'd been vehemently against it -  _we have to build trust_ , I'd said.  _Mages know when they're being watched, and Templars aren't used to being secretive,_  I'd argued.

I keep my eyes trained on Cullen, and he winces under my glare. They let me believe I'd won that argument.  _Stupid, stupid Addie._ My nostrils flare from anger and my cheeks heat with embarrassment, and all I want to do is crawl under something very large to hide away forever.

"I am sorry to hear this, Grand Enchanter," I put on my diplomat voice, which is close to my Tranquil voice, which sounds very much like my ordinary voice a little too often of late. Cullen's expression strains at the sound of it, and for once I don't want to reassure him that  _his_  Aderyn is still hiding away in my skin. "Was anyone hurt?"

"No. No one was injured. But next time -"

"There will not be a next time."

"If it happened once without your knowledge, how can you say it won't happen again?"

_I don't know if I can._  "I offered you freedom, and I meant it. With my life, I meant it. But for now, our focus must be on the Breach."  _And then my life won't mean very much, and you can all kill each other while I rest._ My hands shake at the thought. I'm not sure what's wrong with me - a moment ago, I was fine, I was practically laughing at the thought of leaving this mess behind.

"With all due respect, we are providing aid against the Breach with the understanding that we would be  _free_  with the Inquisition."

I take a deep breath and set my jaw. It's all just hot air - leaving the Breach in the sky isn't a real option, and Fiona knows it. "Are you saying you refuse to help save the world because two people were tackled?"

I don't wait for Fiona to find the words to respond. I don't have the energy for her politicking and power grabs. The crowd parts for the Commander of the Inquisition's forces and the Herald of Andraste, and the two of us simply walk away.

I'm vaguely aware that Josephine would call this 'a missed opportunity.' She would scold me for forgoing a speech. She would tell me that I hurt my own cause by being rude to Fiona. That there are prices to pay for good diplomacy. But this hollowed shell of me doesn't have anything left for diplomacy. Tears find the edges of my eyes for the second time today, and I fight the urge to rub them away - people would notice then. People would see. And if people see, they might want to talk, and I am empty of words.

I lead Cullen to Haven's gates, toward the little house he's been staying in all on his own. My heart pounds in time with my stomping feet.  _Your Commander has not been upholding the terms of our agreement._  The truth rattles through the echoing spaces of my ribcage. He is not  _my_  Commander. He is not  _my_  anything. Not now, not when desperately want him to fill me up with anything he might give.

A small battalion of messengers lingers in front of his door. A chorus of  _Commanders_  pipes from their mouths in a bright melody, the kind of tune that keeps an army marching in step. Only one seems to notice that their Commander is covered with shit.

"The Commander and I have business to discuss. All messages can be delivered at a later time," I say.

"But your worship -" a few of them whistle out, but I shake my head.

"At a later time. Excuse me -" I turn to a young messenger with an unkempt mop of blonde hair and freckles on his nose, and I imagine he can't be older than twelve or thirteen. He's still shorter than I am, and there aren't many humans in Haven who can make that claim. "What is your name?"

"K-kevan, milady Herald."

"Would you be so kind as to find us some water for washing, Kevan?"

"Yes, milady." He nods fiercely before taking off.

I stare flatly at the others until they slink away one by one, rejoining the bustle of Haven after an incident.

Cullen opens his door without looking at me, ducking so the dirty side of his face is facing away from me.

"Aderyn, I'm sorry," he mutters. "But the mages…"

I sweep past him into his cottage, head held high.  _I will not cry because you lied to me, Knight-Captain._   _You will not see my cry over this. I will not cry because you are not mine. Besides, I am Aderyn Surana, and I am always just fine._

He follows me in, the door creaking shut behind us, and I reach out a hand toward the cold hearth. A fire flares to life, and I look straight at it, because I don't want to look at Cullen, who is not the man I want him to be.

Maker, he  _lied_. He lied, and I'm not surprised.

"I told them to be discreet. I only sent men I trusted to be subtle. Careful. But if there was an abomination, we couldn't let it kill a dozen mages. We need them as allies against the Breach, and we couldn't have a massacre on our hands. Aderyn, you have to understand. There  _will_  be abominations. There will be."

"If you take off your dirty furs, I will wash them."

"What?"

"The Tranquil wash a lot of clothes. I am good at washing clothes." I stare at the fire, watching flames lick at neatly stacked logs. I bet Cullen put them there himself - he was always very meticulous about such things. I wasn't meticulous when he knew me, but I'm meticulous now. The brand robbed me of everything but meticulousness, I haven't forgotten it yet.

"You're talking about laundry?"

"I am good at laundry. I am not good at being angry with you."

The fire crackles in the subsequent silence. I listen as Cullen moves behind me, as he shrugs out of his pauldrons. As his gauntlets clang onto the table. As he unhooks his breastplate and starts arranging it on his armor rack. Carefully.  _Meticulously._

I stand still. I am good at standing still, too.

"I just thought...we need to be vigilant."

A knock sounds at the door, and I keep my feet planted toward the fire. Cullen's footsteps thud across the wooden floor, across this one room house that has become one of the most luxurious places in Haven, simply because it is his and his alone. The door creaks open, and more footsteps join Cullen's. Still, I don't turn around.

"You can put the water on the table. Thank you, Kevan. Thank you, all. It is much appreciated," Cullen murmurs.

"Yes, Commander. Anything you need, Commander."

I watch the largest log in the hearth catch fire at last, flames curling through its ridges and rough areas. Soon it will all be ash, cold ash, the only remnants of a once mighty tree. The door creaks open and creaks shut once more.

We are alone, my Templar and me.

I finally turn around. Cullen stands in his shirtsleeves, freed from bits and pieces of his armor. I study his hands, his broad palms and strong fingers, bare and vulnerable without the guardianship of gauntlets. He looks away, and one of those hands rakes through his hair in a habitual motion. But this time, his palm finds the mess on his face, and he curses.

I could turn around again. I could let him clean himself up, let him wipe away the evidence of the day in private. I could pretend that there isn't a chasm between the two of us, built from centuries of Templars fearing mages and mages fearing Templars.

I could pretend I never believed him when he said  _I trust you_  while we sat on a dock not so far from here. I could pretend he never lied.

It would be easier, I think. To pretend.

Instead I move toward him, feet tentative and searching for footholds, as though I were navigating some narrow bridge across our widest divides.

"Sit," I say, motioning toward the single chair that stands beside his little table. He obeys without a word, and I pick up a cloth and dip it into one of the pitchers of warm water.

I wash him clean. He closes his eyes, which have been so full of blame of late. He told me not to bring the mages here, he told me they needed oversight, he told me they were dangerous. And I told him he was wrong. He said he trusted me, and he  _lied._

And yet, my hand glides over the planes of his face, over his sloping brow and strong cheekbones to his hard jaw. I remember when he was a boy and I was a girl and I so wanted to trace the lines of him, to imprint the outline of him into my hands. He has more lines to trace, now. The beginnings of crow's feet around his eyes. A scar on his lip. A sliver of a ridge between his brows. My thumb crosses the bridge of his nose, straight even after so many battles. Even with the cloth between us, my hand glows just from feel of him beneath me.

I rinse his face over and over, scrub soap across his skin, wash away the disgust and embarrassment so I can see  _him_.

And when I'm finished, he is half a stranger to me. There is a Cullen that lives only in my mind, one made of sporadic conversations pieced together across decades using only this exquisite pull between him and me to hold the fantasy of him together. But the man laid bare in front of me is not that false Cullen. This Cullen, the  _real_  Cullen, has secrets that I do not know. He has fears and angers and joys that I cannot share. He sends Templars after mages, he fears abominations above all else, and he doesn't trust people like me.

And yet.  _And yet._

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling under the fine wool of his shirt. I smooth back his clean curls, damp from washing, and I think this man, this half-stranger who has had a decade away from me, a decade that left scars I can't trace with my fingertips - this man is more beautiful than any fiction I could write. Accusations, chasms, apologies and all.

His eyes open slowly, blinking away darkness as though he were just waking from sleep. And when his eyes meet mine, I don't see an apology. I don't see an accusation. When he looks at me, I see what I have always wanted to see:

_You are extraordinary._

"You don't trust mages," I say.

"No," he answers. "Not in the way you want me to."

I nod and take a hold of his hand. Palm to palm, I hope he knows what I'm trying to say better than I do.  _You are wrong in this, but I understand why,_  maybe.  _You are wrong in this, but you are a good man anyway,_  maybe.  _You are wrong in this, but I love you anyway,_  maybe. Or perhaps just that last bit. Perhaps I only mean to say that I love him, free from qualifications.

"I must admit I expected…" Cullen's eyes flit to some far off corner of the room for a moment, but he looks back at me and blushes with familiar sheepishness. "Well. I expected you to yell at me."

"Ha. I am too tired for yelling." The truth of it rings loud in me, echoing through my gaping insides like a bell in an abandoned chantry.

"Is your mark…?" Cullen looks to my hand, and I tighten it into a fist, squeezing my fingers hard against my palm.

"No. Solas' spell works very well. Six rifts today. No pain."

"Addie." Cullen stands up. He leans down and presses his forehead to my forehead. I close my eyes and drink deep of this simple intimacy, of the feel of his hand in my hand and his face against my face. "You can tell me if something's wrong."

My mind filters through the entirety of my life, and I almost start to spill every trauma that has ever happened to me, from being taken tearfully from my family at six years old to witnessing the world fall to pieces a week ago. From Jowan's enormous betrayal ten years ago to Cullen's smaller one a moment ago. From all the dead in Kinloch Hold to all the dead in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. From the Blight to the Breach.

Except, it all seems so very done with. I have pushed it all from my mind, locked it away so I could focus on making it to the Breach. I can fix the Breach, and everything else just feels like blips on a timeline that have come and gone. And if they were terrible blips...well, terrible things happen all the time. This world has worn me down, branded me, taken everything and given only tattered pieces of it back.

But this rebuilt me wasn't constructed for longevity. I am rickety and piecemeal, a wagon built entirely of spare parts. I've been trundling down the road, but I've almost made it to my destination. I'm almost there.

It would be easier for both him and me, I think, to tell him that I am Aderyn Surana, and I am  _just fine_. I could go back to my little room in the Chantry. I could sleep fitfully until dawn comes, until I march tomorrow to the very edge of my fate. He would sleep well, thinking I was just fine, and later he would mourn me as the girl he once so boyishly admired. Nothing more, nothing less. Just all things left behind as they are.

And yet.  _And yet._

There is some small part of me that is still selfishly myself. Some part that thinks I owe it to the last remnant of Addie Surana to finally navigate this narrow bridge between  _mage_  and  _Templar,_ to meet in the middle of him and me.

I open my eyes. Rimmed by dark lashes, his fine amber eyes search mine with worry and sadness and wonder in turn.

I lean towards him, venturing closer in this precarious middle ground. He smells just like I remember, like fur and fire smoke, with notes of fresh soap.

"Tomorrow I'm going to close a hole in sky," I whisper. "I'd rather not dwell on anything tonight. I just want...I want…" I can't find the words for what I want. I can only move closer to him and feel him move closer in turn. I lift onto my toes, carry myself as high as I can reach, and he bends to meet me.

I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back, tight and fierce like we could soak each other in through our laced fingers. His free hand paints a line across my jaw, calluses rough on skin unaccustomed to touching. My breath catches, and my free hand, my marked hand, finds its way deep into his golden curls. My heart pounds to the runaway rhythm of closeness long held at bay. It's further than we've ever ventured, closer than we've ever been, more truth than we've ever spoken. By all rights, it should be enough.

And yet.  _And yet._

His lips find mine in the firelight. For a moment we just hold there, and then all thoughts of  _enough_  fly away like so much dust. My lips part, and our tongues find each other in the space between our mouths. His hands move the small of my back, and he presses me up against him as my arms close around his neck.

"Addie," he says, lips still close enough to brush against mine. "Just tell me if this is too much. I-I mean, I didn't expect this to happen, I didn't…"

I take a moment to drink deep of our shared breath. I force my eyes to open, so I might remember that there's a world outside our mouths and hands and bodies. He looks at me with uncertain eyes, and I don't know if he's watching me like he's an animal about to flee, or if the hint of fear is simply him wondering if I might be the one to run. "I mean, if you don't want to…I - I just wanted...but we can forget this ever happened. If that's what you want."

"Maker's breath, no." He plants kisses around my jaw, and my skin glows under the warmth of his mouth. "I never, ever want to forget this." His lips move to my neck, bringing exquisite heat to my center.

"Well," I breathe, melting beneath his touch. "Good. That's good. Agreed."

I shed my sheepskin coat, and he pulls off his greaves. Bits and pieces of clothing find their way to the floor - a boot, a sock, a belt. They fall from our bodies like flurries of snow, gentle and haphazard, the things that separate us easily discarded in the fire-warm house.

He tugs his shirt over his head, and my greedy hands move across the taut, smooth planes of his muscles. In all my fantasies, this part was indistinct. I could never imagine how good this was feel, how much it would rush and tumble. How much I would  _want_.

His hands slide under my own shirt, traveling over the curve of my waist. His fingers catch on scars, scars given by Templars, drawn on my back when I couldn't even hate them for it.

His fingers pause, and I wish they wouldn't. Pausing makes room for thinking, empties out hollow spaces I've been filling with touch. I pull his arms to my front, where there aren't scars to distract us. But he resists, and I can feel him reaching, searching, thinking about where those scars came from. About these ten years we've been apart, the ten years when his lip was scarred and his eyes grew older. In his searching hands, I can feel him worrying over my own secrets, as I have worried over his.

What questions will he ask? What explaining will I do? If I tell him about the punishment, I will have to explain my 'crime.' And I don't want to think about those apprentices' hands and mouths and bodies roaming over my skin. I don't want to wonder if Cullen ever doled out a similar punishment to someone so similarly helpless. I don't want to wonder what blind eyes he turned. What active roles he took. I don't want to wonder if those hands which feel so perfect on my skin have ever crawled on anyone else's.

_Maker_ , but that thought was vile and unworthy, and I never expected it to cross my mind at all.

"Addie - " He pulls away, putting space between my body and his. But I don't want space. I don't want thoughts or clarity or reasonable talk. I step closer again, press his hand to my breast and plant kisses on his collarbone and will him to simply let this part of my past be a terrible blip. Let it stay untouched in favor of continuing our current touchings.

For a moment, I think he might just let it go. But his hand's make their shaking way to my back, fingers tracing old scars. I've hardly given them thought before now. Or at least, I'd hardly incorporated them into my private fantasies about how this scene might go.

"Cullen." This time it's me who breaks the kiss. "I'm...I should go." I back towards the wall, avoiding his eye as I tug my shirt back down around my hips. My gut rolls with memories of Cullen standing by in armor, Cullen watching as Greagoir pressed a brand to my forehead, Cullen insisting on the Right of Annulment even after all danger had passed.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just...how did that happen?"

I shake my head. This man should know that Tranquil mages usually wear more scars than just their sunburst brands. He should  _know_.

He reaches for my hand, but I brush him away. I don't want to talk about my past. I only have to make it to the Breach, and there's no use in retreading old wounds. There's no use.

"It doesn't matter. We should both get some sleep before tomorrow." I stamp my feet back into my boots, and search the ground for my coat.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm - go, if that's what you want, but - it wasn't my intention to pry. I'm sorry."

I finally look at him, and he looks so lovely and golden and sad. Firelight bathes his bare skin, and for a moment, he looks so beautiful that I can't believe he'd bother with me at all. It's an old feeling, one that stirs memories of myself at thirteen when I first laid eyes on a young Templar, fresh from his training. Back then, I couldn't believe that he paid such special attention to me. I was the First Enchanter's own apprentice, but I wasn't the Tower's most romantically eligible student.

And yet.  _And yet._

"I...I have to go." I belt my coat and slip on my gloves. "I thought I could do this, but I can't."

"Aderyn." Cullen presses his hands to his forehead, as if to banish a headache. "Sh-should we forget this ever happened?"

The stutter breaks some old piece of my heart. I almost run back to him, scars and all. But I simply shake my head at the door. "I would prefer to remember."

* * *

_My wings catch the air. Myrrha flits beside me, a her own wings made of fire and light._

" _You are afraid, but you don't want to say it," Myrrha calls to me._

" _No. Tomorrow I make it to the Breach. I am not afraid."_

" _You were afraid with your Templar."_

" _Cullen is not a Templar anymore."_

" _You are afraid that's not true."_

_I turn a circle in the air, feeling freer than I ever have while awake. "It doesn't matter. I only have to make it to the Breach."_

" _You are afraid that's not true, either."_

_I ignore her, dipping and floating through reflected stars._

" _You are bigger than you know, little sparrow."_

_I shrink down to the tiniest of specks, letting the Fade swallow me. I've been so mixed up, so confused. Right now, I am haphazard and drowning, and I know exactly how big I am._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey guys. This one was. Um. Long. Yeah. That's the word I was going for. I might have gotten a little carried away, lol


	18. Take From Me a Life of Sorrow

The green glow of the Breach mingles with smears of red, bleeding from towers of lyrium. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is still a sickly ruin, but it's not the same as the last time I was here.

Last time, there were crowds of bodies, mouths gaping with silent screams. Last time, I was dirty and tattered and aching, and everyone around me was the same. We were desperate, then. We clung to slivers of the barest hopes, and faced a disaster wearing fresh wounds.

Now, the bodies have been cleared away, rubble swept into neat piles so a living crowd could gather. Our wounds have scarred over, and our hope has mended, too. Everyone else hopes that this dark chapter will be over soon. They look to the Breach and hope that it will give way to clear sunlight. I just hope that  _I_  will be over soon, so I don't have to carry my scars anymore.

No. Perhaps I hope for more than that. For gathered in the Temple are the people of the Inquisition, and for them, I hope for what they hope for. I hope for an after. I hope for an end. I hope that we all get a little rest.

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Guide me through the blackest nights_

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_

_Make me to rest in the warmest places._

Mother Giselle stands on one of the remaining ramparts, her arms spread and her voice singing the Chant. I know she's been leading a lot of prayers in these months she's been with us, but for all my new faith, I haven't been attending. Listening to the Chant like that reminds me too much of obligatory services in the Tower's chapel, and the verses taste of words used to imprison me. But as they float over this terrible, broken place, I can almost believe in their holiness.

_O Creator, see me kneel:_

_For I walk only where You would bid me_

_Stand only in places You have blessed_

_Sing only the words You placed in my throat._

I look to Cullen, who stands far away from me, surrounded by his own soldiers. We haven't spoken since last night, and he's looking squarely to Mother Giselle. I can't tell from here if he looks rested or not, and I wonder if he slept fitfully after our fight, after our kiss, after I fled.

I wonder if I made a mistake, if the Maker's will had been for me and him to have that night together, scars and questions and fears be damned. I wonder if by leaving, I choked down words He placed in my throat. Because why would I love Cullen Rutherford if we weren't  _meant_  for something? What's the point of having all these feelings if it ends like this?

_My Maker, know my heart:_

_Take from me a life of sorrow_

_Lift me from a world of pain_

_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._

Cullen's head turns, and he finds me beneath the rift. I curse my weakness for looking to him, but it's not the Maker's knowledge of my heart that I'm worried about. It's  _his_. Does he know that I'm still angry about setting Templars on the mages? Does he know how much his questions terrified me last night? Does he know how much I hate that had to ask?

Does he know that I love him anyway?

And if the Maker lifts me from this world of pain today, does he know that I still want him to  _live_?

_My Creator, judge me whole:_

_Find me well within Your grace_

_Touch me with fire that I be cleansed_

_Tell me I have sung to your approval._

I look to my companions beside me, to Sera whose laughter is more joyous and practiced than mine ever was. To the Iron Bull, who knows himself better than any other I can name. To Blackwall, who believes so strongly that he is part of something greater than himself. To Vivienne, who lives a life I might have led. To Solas, who is sharp in dreams and soft in life. To Varric, who tells tall tales with more truth than most histories. To Cassandra, who calls me friend.

She turns to me, dark eyes shining with as much hope as the rest of the Inquisition combined. She has so much  _faith_  that we are all standing precisely where we are fated to stand.

_O Maker, hear me cry:_

_Seat me by Your side in death_

_Make me one within Your glory_

_And let the world once more see Your favor_

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_

_And comfort is only Yours to give._

* * *

 After Mother Giselle falls quiet, the world fills up with the shifting rhythm of a crowd in wait. The Breach screams to me, and the rift in front of me sings.

Solas calls to the mages standing on crumbled ramparts. They all look to me, the mages and the soldiers and the people of the Inquisition. Power starts to trickle toward my hand, and I can feel it pressing on my mark, on my skin, on my very bones.

And I can feel them, all of them. My people.

In me, I can feel their fear and their hope. Their prejudices. Their loyalties. I can feel their love for sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers that were never mine. It all rages with their strengths and limitations, all of it screaming in my ears and pumping through my pulse.

The rift shifts.

My arm moves of its own volition, or more like the volition of a hundred mages who aren't me. My mark aches to meet the Breach, and I will it to close, to mend, to  _finish_ this _._

A minute ago, I had to force myself not to look at Cullen, but I couldn't look at him if I wanted to just now. Because right now, I can see only the rift in front of me and the Breach above me. And in the green swirls of raw, wounded universe, I see... _everything._

I see a little brother who isn't mine laughing in the rain. A lover I've never met displaces him, her eyes bluer than summer skies. A mother I've never hugged comes next, crying as the Templars take me away.

And those visions flicker as they give way to more, to faces I've never seen and houses I've never lived in and forests I've never loved. It tumbles through my empty skin, rattles through my hollow skeleton as though to wash away everything I've ever been.

It delivers me from my fear. It fills my throat with an Inquisition's worth of words, of lifetimes of Maker-given speeches. I know, with all the faith and doubt of a hundred hearts, that I am singing to the Maker's approval.

As I point my hand and close this Breach, I am not Aderyn Surana, and I am more than  _just fine._

The sliver of a soul that is left to me wants to scream at the thought of being alone in these bones once more.  _O Maker, hear my cry: if you love me even just a little, you will not make me go back. You will take me right now._

The edge of pain creeps into my hand, and I can feel that familiar cutting weakness.  _Yes._  This is what I needed, this is what I was waiting for. If I were adding my own power to someone else's,  _this_ is what they'd see reflected back to them from me. Not Cullen and his kisses. Not late-night mischief with Jowan. Not lessons with Irving or riding with Cassandra or even singing with Myrrha. It would be this, the pain that carries with it the promise of oblivion.

The rift shrinks, and so does the Breach.  _No._  It's moving too fast, the pain is waning too fast.  _No, no, no._

Flickering memories fade to nothing as the fade disappears from view. The scream of the Breach shifts to a high-pitched whine.  _No, no, no. Take from me this life of sorrow. Take it, please,_ _ **please**_ **.**   _I need you to take it._

Silence hits my ears like a thunderclap, and my arm springs away from the sky with enough force to knock me to the ground.

_Maybe this is what death feels like. Falling on your ass._

I never expected death to have so much cheering.

_Herald,_  someone calls to me.  _Herald, Herald, Herald,_ they echo. I just sit with my eyes closed, willing my shaking limbs to go numb, my racing mind to quiet, my racing heart to stop beating.

Maker, my heart wasn't supposed to keep beating.

"Aderyn."

My eyes open. Cassandra is there, face full of concern and triumph and pride. I fill my lungs with air and lift up a quivering hand.

"I am fine," I say. "I am just fine."

* * *

 The celebration moves in wide circles, lazy and free and limber in a way the Inquisition has never been before. Music floats through snowflakes, and hot breath makes a silver fog in the evening air.

I perch on a pile of crates, arms tucked deep into my sleeves against the cold. I draw my knees to my chest, and I imagine that if I fold myself tightly enough, my whole body will collapse and I'll simply wink out of existence. Maybe the world will remember that I don't belong here anymore at all.

"Cold?"

I turn my head, making sure to keep my ears carefully covered by my fur-lined hood. Cassandra smiles as she walks toward me, and I sigh. Her shoulders are looser than I've ever seen them as she walks toward me, and I'm not sure if the blush in her cheeks is from the cold or the mead that seems to be everywhere tonight.

"You found me," I say.

"It was not easy, if that helps." Cassandra studies me for a moment, but I look away. "Are you all right? How is the pain?"

I shrug. Perhaps it would be easier to just tell her that I'm hurting very terribly and that I need to lay down. But I'm afraid that if I lay down, I'll lose what little pain I do have, and then where will I be? Just floating in a new tomorrow, staring at a sea of tomorrows. And I'll be expected to perform acts of great heroism during all of them, even though heroism is so very tiring, and I am already so very tired.

"If you're hurting, Solas and Adan can - "

"No. I...I'm just not much of a dancer." I manage to give her a small smile, but she doesn't seem very satisfied.

"You could at least move closer to the fire. You might be warmer."

I squeeze my legs even tighter to my chest. The truth is that there are a lot of people near the fire, and I can't be a hero for them right now. I'm too tired. I'm too small. "I like the view here."

Cassandra follows my gaze to Varric telling stories, to Sera dancing with Josephine, to Dorian laughing with the Iron Bull and Vivienne. "And you don't want to celebrate your victory with them?"

"Not my victory. I just pointed my hand at a rift."

"Oh? Was that all you did? So all of those speeches you gave to shocked Chantry mothers were just illusions? Going to the future and back was a lie after all?"

"Cassandra…"

" _You_  made this happen. Not your mark. Attached to anyone else, we would not be standing here at all."

I shake my head. "Sometimes I still think that, of the two of us, you might have been a better choice."

"No. We needed you. We still do."

_I'm not even supposed to be here anymore. I was supposed to be dead, like Irving said. All this time, I was supposed to be_ _ **resting**_ _._ "I closed the Breach."

"But we have yet to discover how the Breach came to be. We still don't know who killed the Divine." Cassandra catches my eye and holds it this time. She looks so beautiful in the night, eyes gleaming and cheekbones sharp. She's not young, older than I am by a decade, but I feel so very wizened in comparison. She is brimming with the promise of life after the Breach, and I am  _finished._

"Searching out answers like that might be a job for a Seeker of the Truth," I whisper.

"What are you saying? You're not seriously considering leaving the Inquisition, are you?"

"No. I mean, I don't know. I just…" I fumble for words that don't have anything to do with death and dying and fading away. I've said too much this time - Cassandra looks at me like I'm a stranger, and perhaps I am. The thing that guided her to my friendship was faith, and the Aderyn Surana that filled her with so much faith was a lie built on the whisperings of frightened pilgrims.

"Did something happen that I should be aware of?"

"No, I - "

An alarm bell tolls.

"What is that?" I ask, my eyes searching the horizon for a fire in the camps or a fight amongst revelers. Maker, maybe Cullen will finally have his abomination, maybe…

Another bells rings, closer this time. And then another and another. The celebration below turns to chaos, and Cassandra shifts onto her toes and draws her sword. I hop down from my perch on the crates and grab my staff, still looking for any indication of what's happening.

Cullen dashes through town, shouting. My ears strain to hear him. When I finally do, my gut turns sickly somersaults at his words.

"Forces approaching!" he calls. "To arms!"

* * *

 Cassandra and I run to Cullen as fast as our legs will carry us, meeting him at the gates of Haven. The Iron Bull, Dorian, and Vivienne are already with him, and Varric, Sera, Josephine, and Leliana arrive just behind.

"Cullen?" Cassandra says.

"One watchguard reporting. It's a massive force, the bulk over the mountain." Cullen's eyes meet mine, and I wince. Maker, I wanted to drift away in the line of duty today, but I wanted it to just be me. Not the people of the Inquisition, and not Cullen. Cullen was supposed to  _live._

Blackwall and Solas slip beside us to round out our company. We're quite the crowd, I think, this inner circle of mine, and my heart aches at the thought of it shrinking.

"Under what banner?" Josephine asks.

He shakes his head. "None."

" _None_?"

Someone bangs on the other side of the gate, and half of us jump half out of our skin.  _None._

"I can't come in unless you open!" someone calls from outside the walls. He bangs again, the old wood creaking under the simple force of his fist. Maker's breath, but those walls will never hold, not against a massive unknown fighting force.

I move to open the gate, but Cullen grabs my shoulder. I shrug him off. "What do you expect me to do? Leave him outside to die?"

"Addie - "

I set my jaw and push open the gate, staff in hand. At the door is a young man, barely more than a boy, stringy hair peeking out from under a massive hat. And behind him is a Templar.

Before I can open my mouth, the boy shoves a knife deep into the Templar's armor. He crumbled into a pile of plate mail and dead flesh, and Josephine lets out a strangled cry at my back.

"I'm Cole," the boy says. "I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know."

"What is this?" I snap. "What's going on?"

"The Templars come to kill you."

"Templars?" Cullen snarls. "Is this the Order's response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?" There's real pain in his voice, pain born from layered betrayal. Because his Order, his people, his brothers and sisters have betrayed him by attacking, but there's more. I've betrayed him, too, because if I hadn't gone to the mages in the first place, this wouldn't be happening at all. His eyes slide towards me only to flit away. There's blame there, and the knowledge that it must be set aside.

"The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him? He knows you. You took his mages." He looks at me, and I nod. I know him, maybe. I know that red future. I know this is terrible, terrible news. Cole points. "There."

Atop a hill, a tall figure, red and lanky and twisted appears.  _The Elder One._

"He's very angry that you took his mages."

My heart races. "Cullen," I call. "Give me...give me anything."

He might have broken. He might have declared resistance futile and impossible. But instead he looks to the mountains, to his invading brethren, and he sets his jaw. "Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle."

"The catapults."

He nods. "Hit them with as much as we can. Try to keep the Templars off the heavy weapons." He turns around, then, drawing his sword and addressing the mages who gathered behind our inner circle.

"Mages!" he shouts. "You have sanction to engage them!"

A smattering of soldiers answer him with a deep throated cry, but the mages aren't creatures of true war. They don't know what to say.

"Inquisition!" Cullen calls again, because he must be the one who knows. "For the Herald! For you lives! For all of us!"

The soldiers call back, and more mages join them. The Iron Bull shouts loudest of all, and his Chargers materialize around him. My own voice joins a choir of shouts, and the force of my lungs seems to lend strength to the rest of me. I tingle with fear and despair and hope and fight.

I run forward to find a perch where I can make the earth tremble and lightning strike and fires burn. As I fill my veins with magic and death, I fill my heart with all those visions from earlier today, from the power and memories and dreams and sorrows of a hundred mages. And even though Cullen told them they were fighting for me, I feel like I'm fighting for them. 

This isn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to drift away hours ago. All these people were supposed to be greater than me, bigger than me,  _safer_ than me. They're supposed to be dancing, because the Breach is closed and the world is righted.

And yet. _And yet._  An arrow buries itself deep in a mage's side, and she screams. 

_My Maker, know my heart:_

_Take from me a life of sorrow._

More screams echo through the night, and all I can hope is that some of those voices find  _rest_. 


	19. Throne of the Gods

****

Chapter 18

~ Throne of the Gods ~

* * *

Haven is burning.

Minaeve leans on my shoulder as I practically carry her through the village, and the Iron Bull and his Chargers bring in a half a dozen other civilians.

Was I freezing cold only an hour ago? Sweat trickles down my back now, from exertion and fires and fear. Minaeve stumbles, Minaeve who helped the Tranquil. Who might have chosen that life, if things were different. Who had no idea what heroism she'd have given up. Overhead, a dragon keens.

I tighten my grip on her waist, and Chancellor Roderick ushers us into the chantry.

"Move, keep going!" he says. "The Chantry is your sh-shelter." His eyes meet mine as we flood through the doors, two dozen of us, all so desperately in need of shelter. Of a Haven. I might have shaken my head. Told him that no, the Chantry is no shelter. Not for long. Except, his eyes are glassy and feverish, they know very well that there is no haven here any longer.

I remember, too, when Chancellor Roderick didn't want the chantry to be a shelter, not for me. But in the face of slaughter and red Templars and a tainted dragon, those early arguments feel so very small.

The Iron Bull bars the Chantry doors once more after his Chargers get through, and the Roderick stumbles. Cole, the boy from the gates, catches him before he crashes to the ground.

"He tried to stop a Templar," Cole says, "The blade cut deep. He's going to die." The steady cadence of his voice sends familiar shivers down my spine, and I wonder if that hat covers a sunburst on his forehead. I wonder if he's like me - not quite Tranquil, not quite anything else.

"What a - charming boy," Roderick says, coughing out his words with a hint of blood.

"Who made it?" Varric calls, wiping blood off his cheek. His eyes scan the crowd in the Chantry, and I take stock as well. Cassandra and Blackwall start to clean their weapons, Sera restrings her bow. Dorian sinks to the ground with his back against the wall, and Vivienne stands still as a statue with fire in her eyes beside him. Bull counts his Chargers, and Solas clings to the edges of the room.

Across the chantry, I spot Josephine and Leliana with a couple mages. One of them cranes his neck to see me, and my heart pounds at the sight of a familiar face.  _Kinnon._  Kinnon who once taught me and Jowan summoning techniques, who once had an apprentice named Eldredda. They both died young, Jowan and Eldredda, but we're not dead. Not Kinnon and me. Not yet.

I help Minaeve to the ground, but I can't stop looking for one more person. One more.  _Maker, let there be just one more familiar face._ "Cullen," I call. "Where is Cullen?"

For a moment, I fear no one will answer me.  _This isn't how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to drift away. Not him. Not my Templar._  Except from around the corner, a man with golden curls emerges, face haggard from the day.

"Aderyn. I'm right here."

We close the distance between us quickly, but it's not an intimate thing - we spent all of our intimate currency last night. Now, it's just relief and duty, and that's just fine. "Cullen, thank the Maker," I breathe.

"Our position is not good. That dragon sold back any time you might have earned us."

"I've seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that." Cole looks up from the brim of his hat, and Cullen shakes his head.

"I don't care what it looks like. It has cut a path for that army. They'll kill everyone in Haven."

I can't wrap my head around it, because if that's true, what was it all for? Why survive the Conclave, why travel across southern Thedas, why go to that red future, why survive closing the Breach? Is this punishment from the Maker for allying with the mages? Can He be that cruel? Could I have been that wrong? I look for any soft reassurances from Cullen, from the man that so recently let me wash away his embarrassments, that so recently pressed his forehead to my forehead, brand be damned. But that man I know is gone, and the one in front of me is  _Commander_  Cullen Rutherford, and he has no space for soft things.

"The Elder One doesn't care about the village," Cole says. "He only wants the Herald."

_O Creator, see me kneel: for I walk only where You would bid me._ For a moment, everything makes sense again. It wasn't enough to close the Breach. That's why I'm still here. Because I have one last path to walk before I rest.

"Then he can have me," I say. "Problem solved."

"Aderyn, you can't possibly sacrifice yourself on the word of a stranger," Cullen objects.

"It won't save them anyway. He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he will crush them, kill them anyway. I don't like him."

"You don't like - " Cullen groans, turning back to me, and maybe just a tiny suggestion of a soft edge creeps into his eyes. "Aderyn, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide."

"Haven would be lost." I shake my head - Haven can't be lost. This place is for the Inquisition. This strange village in the snow was supposed to be a thing that outlived me.

"We're dying. But we can decide how. Many don't get that chance."

_Blaze of glory. Proper ending._ That's what I'd wanted all those years ago in the Harrowing chamber, what I'd been too afraid to take for myself. Maybe that's all there is - passively accepting the end before you and choosing the manner of your dying. Maybe that's what the Maker needed from me.

Maybe that's what He needed me to learn. Maybe this lesson is one final gift.

"Cullen, I - " I don't have the words for everything I want to tell him, so I follow his lead and harden my heart. Because here, the only choices left are good deaths and bad ones, and I know which one I want. "I can do it. I can get back to the trebuchets, and maybe having me out there will distract him."

"I will go with you." And for a sliver of a moment, we are truly together in the center of all our chasms, my Templar and me. I nod. Maybe someone will write a tragic tale about us one day. Maybe they'll sing songs of us in taverns one day, when the night is waning and the crowd grows melancholy. The Herald of Andraste and her Commander, the Apprentice and her Templar, both grown and changed and scarred, leaving this world under glittering snowdrifts. Together.

"Yes, that." Cole's voice breaks our private understanding, and for a moment, I wonder if could hear my thoughts. Except then he looks from Roderick to the door to our war room, and then to Cullen and me. "Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies."

Roderick meets my eye for the first time that I can remember, no flinching at my brand or my ears or my mark. "There is a path," he says. "You wouldn't know it unless you made the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me - Andraste must have shown me - so I could t-tell you."

"I don't understand," I whisper.

"It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start...it was overgrown...Now, with so many in the Conclave dead...to be the only one who remembers…I-I don't know. If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident.  _You_ could be more."

He looks at me like so many others have looked at me over these last months, like he's trying to see the shine on me. The holy shine, not just the glow of a magical mark. Except what looks like fate to him in this moment feels like whiplash, and my life has never felt more like mere accident. A mysterious boy shows up and promises a heroic death, only to take it away. Cullen and I decide to choose our death together this time, and then Roderick says we have a way out.

I look to Cullen, and the pain in his eyes reminds me that there's not a way out for me. Not for the Herald of Andraste. No - in order for this plan to work, I still have to distract a dragon.

I find that suits me just fine.

"I'll aim the trebuchets and distract the Elder One until you get above the treeline. You'll lead them out. It's a good plan."

"Addie - what of your escape?" His eyes show signs of his own rising and falling hopes, and the look on his face breaks my heart. What had I thought would happen if I died today? That he would be fine? That I could just kiss him one night and expect him to be fine with my death the next?

I look away, because no good can come of anything I might say now.

"I...I don't want to be left behind. Not again," he whispers, only just loud enough for me to hear.

"Living is not the same as being left behind," I whisper back. I turn to go. No more eye contact. No more touches or kisses or old stories. And no more trying to make sense of any of this. The only things left in the world are me and those trebuchets.

"Herald." Roderick stops me before I can go. "If you were meant for this, if the Inquisition was meant for this...I pray for you."

Those words have never felt emptier.

Cullen calls to the Inquisition, moving them toward Chancellor Roderick's path. I can feel eyes on me, from Cassandra and Solas and Varric and all the rest. I won't look at them, either.

"Aderyn.  _Herald_." The word sound strange on Cullen's lips, and turn my head one last time. "If you are to have a chance - if  _we_  are to have a chance - let that thing hear you."

_We._ I'm not sure what that means just now. The Inquisition, maybe. Or maybe just him and me, Aderyn Surana and Cullen Rutherford, would-be lovers who could never quite find their meeting place. Regardless, I can't think of this as the last time our eyes will ever meet. I've thought that too many times before. I don't stop to memorize the planes of his lovely face either, because I've done that before, too. I know them now anyway. I've felt them beneath my fingers, and the memory in my hands will always be stronger than anything my eyes could make.  _Always._ I'm not entirely sure what that means just now.

I don't have any words for him, so I nod and step out into the snow. Alone.

* * *

"Alone" turns out to be a relative thing. As I fight my way through twisted Templars, I meet pockets of Inquisition soldiers. I try not to think about the fact that I'm about to bury them in the snow.  _We're dying, but we get to choose how. Most people don't that luxury._  These soldiers don't get that luxury. I'm choosing for them. Cullen's uncertain ' _we'_  doesn't include them.

At the trebuchets, Templars already swarm the controls. A dozen soldiers wield arrows and axes around its base, and I toss fireballs at the red, twisted remnants of those once called to guard me.

I try not to think about how many of them would be alive if I had thought to send a larger envoy to the Templars. Maybe I let my bitterness blind me. Maybe I forgot that Templars are more than the people who caged me, who stole my will and used me as labor. Who broke me. Maybe I forgot that they are more than just monsters who break, and I let someone else truly turn them into what I feared they were.

_You took his mages,_ Cole had said. I should have taken his Templars, too.

As the last of their group falls, the Inquisition soldiers look to me in unison. Two of them are badly bleeding, standing beside a pair of panting mabari hounds. One of them has an eye swollen shut from a hard blow. An archer stands with an empty quiver and a knife in his hand, and the others slip around, all haggard, all exhausted. All overflowing with desperate hope.

"Lady Herald," calls the archer with no arrows. "Where are the others? Is the Commander sending reinforcements?"

My heart grows too big for my chest, and my throat tightens. There will be no reinforcements for these soldiers. No escape. No choice.

I shake my head. The soldiers' faces fall, but the archer doesn't let it break him. He stands taller, looks me straight in the eye. He stares down duty and dares it to do its worst.

"Orders?" he calls.

"Turn the trebuchet," I say, willing my own voice to remain steady. "We're burying the enemy in Haven."

The quiet that falls over this exhausted company fills the night air. One of the soldiers, a big woman with a longsword in hand, spits into the snow. I force myself to look them all in the eye. Some are angry. They are the hardest to take, because they still have to energy for rage. They don't need  _rest._

"All right, soldiers," the archer calls. "Grenn, Pollock, to the far trebuchet. Kells, Wolfe, in the center. Loren, Hector, with me." A smattering of unnamed faces look to him, and he takes a deep breath before addressing them. "The rest of you, keep them off us."

They move quickly and efficiently, obeying orders like seasoned soldiers, but half of them wear the piecemeal armor of raw Inquisition recruits. A few of them salute me. I stand helpless in the snow. The Maker didn't build me for doling out death sentences. I didn't mean to be a warrior. Not ever.

Yet, here I am, supposedly chosen by Andraste to walk this path. I'm beginning to think the Maker didn't build me for anything at all, except maybe for gathering people from the far corners of Thedas so they could follow me to their deaths.

* * *

The last twisted Templar falls, and I try not to think about the fact that the creature made of tainted lyrium in front of me was once a man like any other. If things were different, Cullen might have been one of those things.

Behind me, the last of the trebuchets groans into place.

"What now?" a woman calls, a dwarf with deadly daggers in hand.

"We set them off and kill ourselves, that's what," someone answers.

"No," I call. "No, Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra are leading the bulk of the Inquisition through the mountains. I'll wait for the signal that they've reached the treeline."

"You're asking us to leave us here? Alone?" the archer says. "The Herald of Andraste?"

I take a deep breath. I remember feeling like I was drowning in my own title in Val Royeaux. I remember calling on Andraste to guide me. But now, I have never needed her guidance more, and she has abandoned me. Or perhaps I only imagined her in the first place. I don't know anything at all anymore, except that right now, right here, telling these people to run to a destination they'll probably never have the time to reach...I know that I have never felt more alone in my life.

"That dragon and the thing that rides it? They're looking for  _me._  I am the bait. You should go."

"Herald - "

I hold up my marked hand to silence him, letting it flash across the snow. "What's your name, archer?"

"It's Ganned, your worship."

"Ganned," I repeat. " _Run._ "

That's all some of the others need to start a dash through the snow to higher ground. And then, one by one, they turn away, following each other, their legs stealing the fight for their lives from their weapons. My archer, my Ganned, is the last to go.

"It's been an honor to follow you, Herald of Andraste," he says.

I nod, and it's a simple thing, but he takes it as a dismissal. When he disappears into the hills and the trees, I am alone once more.

The dragon screams again.

_Let that thing hear you._

I lift my right hand high into the air, and I let lightning fly into the night sky.  _Here I am, Elder One. Bring your dragon and leave my people alone._

I scream wordlessly into the night, my voice grating and raw in my burning throat. I haven't slept properly since the night before last, and I can feel dawn creeping into this one. My eyes itch from cold and exhaustion, my mark still aches just a little from closing the Breach, and I'm not entirely sure how many more lightning strikes I can summon without access to lyrium.

But I let it crack across the sky anyway, because I have nothing left but letting that Maker-forsaken creature  _hear me._

The dragon tips its wings. For a moment, I think it might be heading toward the mountains, toward Cullen and the rest of the Inquisition, and I scream again. I loose more lightning into the sky.  _Hear me. Hear me. Hear me, you stupid fucking beast._

Its great head shifts, and I could almost feel as if I were locking eyes with it, even from so far away.

And even though it seems far away, it comes  _fast._

I scramble away from atop the trebuchet, because if it decides to run me down, it will destroy my people's only hope.  _My people._ The Inquisition is made of my people.

I hope the dragon doesn't unceremoniously swallow me whole. That would make it hard to start an avalanche. I think I maybe should have thought of that before I sent everyone else away.

As I run across the snow and ice, a dragon roars. Its hot breath whips across my neck, and when its feet touch the ground, I pitch forward onto the ground.

For a moment, the sound overwhelms me, and I'm afraid I won't ever be able to get up. But I force my legs to move, because I have more work to do.

And when I stand, a looming figure meets my eyes.

The Elder One.

I try to back towards the trebuchets, but the dragon hops behind me, and I have to run back to avoid his red breath. When I turn, the Elder One watches.

"Enough," he says. He lifts his arms, and the dragon quiets like a well trained war-hound. "Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken no more."

The voice echoes of earlier memories, of that first day at the Breach, and the one that day replayed. I was running, I know. Things were chasing me, I know. Before that, there was a voice. And a figure, a figure that loomed over me, the me that couldn't  _feel_.

For a moment, I think I might simply watch him in silence. What does it matter if he tells a dying girl any information? I won't be able to tell anyone. Any answers he might give would be useless to anyone but me. And I did not expect to care about me just now.

And yet, I open my mouth, and words pour forth, strong and loud as they ever might have when I was an unbroken apprentice. "What are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Mortals beg for knowledge they cannot have. It is beyond what you are, what I was. Know me. Know what you have pretended to be."

He glowers, and I look him in the eye. I am not afraid.  _I am not afraid._ But I don't know him. He is still all looming shadows, stained with red.

"Exalt! The Elder One. The will that is Corypheus." He speaks the words as if they have meaning, but they don't. I'm still swirling through all of this, and all I have to do is make it through the next minutes, until Cullen sends up the signal. Just the next few minutes. Like I thought I'd have to do just earlier today. Except I don't feel like the woman I was when I woke up this morning. That woman knew what her destiny was. But she was wrong.

And I want to believe that this is my destiny, that dying in the face of the Elder One, this Corypheus, is what the Maker had planned for me. Except I don't know that the Maker has any plans for me anymore, and I don't want to die feeling so  _lost._ How am I supposed to rest if my soul hasn't found its way yet?

"You will kneel," The Elder One calls.

I want him to be wrong.

"Help me understand what you want."

"Your understanding is not required. If you gain it, consider yourself blessed." He lifts a red orb in his spindly hand, and something about it tugs at my mark. I clench my fist, fighting the pain, and he notices. He  _smiles._  "I am here for the  _anchor_. The process of removing it begins now."

He reaches for me, and the pain begins. It stabs through my hand, snaking its way through my veins all the way to my heart, like crawling knives in my skin. My hand feels like it might catch fire or simply blacken and die.  _Maker_ , let it just blacken and die. Let Corypheus have it.

I keep my face serene. Tranquil. I am strong, and I will not kneel.

"It is your fault, 'Herald.' You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose."

I force my knees to work. I will not sink to the ground. I will not kneel.

"I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as 'touched,' what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens."

_I will not kneel._

"And you used the Anchor to undo my work."

I fall, knees crashing against ice. I cling to my wrist with my unmarked hand. He came for the mark. He used it to make me kneel. He crafted it. I took it. No Maker. No Andraste. No fate.

"What is this thing meant to do?" I call.  _Meant._ I might have laughed at the thought if I weren't in so much pain. Nothing feels  _meant_  right now, even though everything felt  _meant_  this morning.

"It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it."

But that's not the certainty it granted me. It granted me purpose. It granted me heroism. It granted me  _feelings_  and  _wantings_  and  _magic._  It granted me the certainty that Andraste had picked me for a reason, that the Maker had put me on a path larger than I could have ever imagined.

And that was true until Corypheus came to take it away.

I shake my head. " _No._ "

He stalks toward me, grabs my wrist, and my mark shines green against his red face. He pulls me off the ground so my feet dangle in the air. It might hurt, except the only hurt I feel comes from my mark.

"I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person." He pulls my face close to his, so I can smell his rotted breath and tainted skin. I look into his red eyes, swirling and mad. "I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more.

"I have gathered the  _will_  to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world."

The pain in my hand eases ever so slightly, making room for an ache in my shoulder and in my wrist and in my head. He narrows his eyes at mine, and I remain serene. "Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was  _empty._ "

I finally shiver. Because I know what emptiness feels like, and it is a fearsome thing indeed.

He tosses me through the air, and my back thuds against something solid. Wood splinters against my coat as I slide down, and I scramble to get to my feet. I look up at what I hit -  _the trebuchet._

"The Anchor is permanent," he spits. "You have spoiled it with your stumbling."

I grab a sword beside me, a sword that doesn't belong to me, as Corypheus and his dragon stalk forward.  _I just have to make it until Cullen gives the signal._  Corypheus is certainly going to kill me now. He can't have what he wants. I am a nuisance, and he will get rid of me. I probably won't have time to drift peacefully beneath piles of snow.

"So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation - and  _god_  - it requires."

_Come on, Cullen. Give me the signal. Now is the time._

Maker, let him  _live_.

Just then a flare appears on the horizon, and I think the throne of the Maker might not be so empty after all.

"And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die."

I glance at the rope holding the controls of the trebuchet in place. I don't bother looking back at Corypheus. I don't want my last image to be of that monster and his tainted dragon. If I must die, my death will be my own. I lift my borrowed sword and bring it down on the rope.

"Maker take me to his side," I whisper.

The snow comes quickly down the mountain. Corypheus and his dragon fly away, and I am left behind.

_I don't want to be left behind,_  Cullen said.

I didn't know it at the time, but maybe I didn't want to be left behind, either.

* * *

I open my eyes, and I am in a glittering, private kingdom. White walls shimmer from the barest of light, and the cold sinks into my aching bones like a balm.

Death hurts more than I thought, but maybe that's my fault. Maybe I thought too much about the sweetness of pain. Maybe I brought this on myself.

Green light flares through the space, and a sharp pain stabs through my marked hand. I study it for a long moment. It looks brighter than before, maybe, but I am largely unchanged. I still have blood and dirt under my fingernails. My boots are wet. My head pounds with the worst headache I could imagine.

A staff - not mine - sits beside me, and there's blood on that, too. I use it to pull myself to my feet.

Cold. Wet.  _Snow._  This is snow. There was an avalanche.

I am  _alive._

* * *

The wind whips through my hair. The Frostbacks climb into the air with stony spires, like the frozen, barren teeth of the very earth. The sky lightened once and is darkening again, but I dare not sleep. If I sleep, I know that I won't wake. Yesterday, I would have given anything for the chance to sleep and never wake. I was surrounded by friends, drowning in destiny, swept up in the sweet promises of victory.

Today, victory seems a foolish dream. Today, I can hear the Elder One's voice pounding through my sleepless skull.

_It was empty._

I am empty. But maybe, just maybe, I am not fated to be. Maybe dying now isn't my destiny, and maybe I am tired, but maybe one day I will wake refreshed. The only thing I had left to me yesterday was fate, and it filled up my hollow bones with sad certainty. But maybe there's no such thing as fate at all.

In this emptiness, I might have found a tunnel to possibility.

I stumble. My legs might have other ideas.

My teeth chatter out a wild rhythm as I try to stand up once more.  _One more step and then the next and the next. That's all it is. That's all there needs to be in the whole world. Just one. More. Step._

I rise to my feet. I fall again.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid Addie._ I let myself believe I might survive this. I let myself believe that I have enough fight left in me to make it just a little bit farther. That fighting so hard in Haven meant that I was bigger than I knew. But my legs have decided that I'm not and I can't and I'm going to die here. Alone. Just in time to be sad about it once more.

I curl into a small ball and look to the horizon, as if someone will come to my rescue if I just wait long enough. Perhaps someone will look for me. Cassandra or Cullen or...someone.

But I was buried under the snow. I was supposed to die there. Who would look for me now?  _Maker_ , what's the point of letting me live through the Breach and a dragon and a self-proclaimed god and an avalanche if I'm just going to die right here?

A shadow appears from atop a snow drift. For a moment, I think it might be a friend come to the rescue. But this shadow has four legs and a sturdy build, and it limps toward me as if it were as just as tired as I am.

The mabari hound comes to me like a ghost through the snow and the wind and the cold, and when she stands in front of me, I stand, too.

"Hey, dog," I croak to her through a raspy throat. She lets me lean against her for a moment as I gain my balance, and the two of us trek forth to greater heights.

My mark flashes.  _It is meant to bring certainty when there is none._

In this moment, I am certain of only one thing: I am Aderyn Surana, and I will not kneel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hey guys! I'm so excited to have reached this point in the story. Addie is alive, headed off to find her people again. She's going to find Skyhold. She's going to have struggles. She's going to be sad and happy and sad again and happy again. But she's growing, too. There will also be smooching. I am excited for the smooching.
> 
> I am really truly grateful that you have made it to this point with me. Thank you so, so, so much for reading, and I'll see you next chapter!
> 
> ~Jorie


	20. Aderyn Surana is Dead

Aderyn Surana stands in our simple kitchen, her long hair falling in soft waves to her waist. Her hips flare beneath sturdy skirts, the kind she wears when she knows her day will be full of steady work.

She sings quietly as she kneads dough for bread, a pretty tune that one of the village girls taught her last summer. There was a time when she sang only when she thought no one was listening, but now she gifts me with sweet songs on sunny days and starry nights, while she dances through the world and while she lies cradled in my arms.

"I see you standing there, husband. Don't think I can't," she calls as she finishes the refrain. I smile as she turns to me, her dark eyes brimming with playful light.

"I would never underestimate your powers of observation, wife." The space between us melts away into the sunshine streaming through windows, my arms circling her narrow waist with casual ease.

She hums an acknowledgment, and I tuck her hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at the point. When I'd come back to Honnleath with an elven wife, some of our neighbors had raised eyebrows. But Aderyn has found a place here. It's hardly an issue.

I cup the back of her head, kissing her lips softly. I can taste berries on her lips - she must have picked some this morning. Her hands cup my chin, and the kiss deepens. I could drink her for hours, for days, and my hands travel under the hem of her shirt to press against the prefect, unbroken skin of her back.

_Unbroken?_  What an odd thought - of course her skin is unbroken. Nothing could break Aderyn Surana. She is invincible, the best apprentice the Tower had ever seen, so in control of her magic that the Chantry decided she didn't have to live in the Circle at all. That she could come home with me, that we could build a life, that she could be my wife. I've been blessed with a lifetime to watch her furrow her brow as she concentrates, to blush with her and laugh with her and listen to her sing.

But how long is a lifetime? Some lives are short. Too short. Something green and bright and powerful flashes at the edge of my vision, and I break our kiss to look at it, but my eyes find only sunlight soaking the room.

"What's wrong, love?"

"I saw…" The green flashes again, but this time it's coming from her  _hand_ , the one that still lingers on my jawline. My chest tightens, and every hair on my arms stands on end.

"Cullen, you're scaring me."

"Addie, I…" I shake my head, and suddenly we're standing on the edge of a frozen lake. Her cheeks are pink from cold, and her hair is shorter, the ends just barely brushing her shoulders.

I kiss her again, because if I'm kissing her, then nothing matters but the warmth of her soft lips and the taste of her sweet tongue and the way she has always made my heart race, even when it was forbidden. If I am kissing her, then the green light doesn't matter at all.

She pulls off my shirt, and even though we're standing in the snow, the air is hot against my skin, and my nose fills with the rich smells of fire-smoke. Her hands are more insistent than in my fantasies, and the fire I feel is better than any boyish image I could have produced.

My own hands pull off her shearling coat and untuck her shirt from her breeches. Except that isn't right, because she's wearing skirts and an apron and stray traces of flour. She is my wife. We're in our home. We've done this a hundred times before, but this time is best, and the next time will be better. Always better and better and better. She is my wife. We're in our home.  _She is my wife. We're in our home._

When I press my hands to her back, palms flat against her skin, I find scars. Smooth, raised lines, criss-crossing her back - they're wrong. She is Aderyn Surana, and she is invincible.

And when I pull away, we are standing under a green sky, surrounded by demons. They line up in endless rings, just watching and waiting, stock still. Aderyn looks to me with sad eyes, and there's something different about her mouth. She once seemed to be on the constant edge of grinning, like the world could throw her a joke at any moment, and she would be  _ready_. But now...now her lips rest serenely in smooth face, muscles lax over her cheeks.

When I look up from her lips to her eyes, I see what I should never have let myself forget - a sunburst branded in the center of her forehead.

"No," I whisper. "No, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have...I shouldn't have…"

"I would prefer not to cry," she whispers in return, but tears tumble down her cheeks. I want to pull her close, to hold her, but space suddenly stretches between us. I reach for her, shoulders straining and arms tight from bicep to fingertip. I push, press, move, but I can't...I can't get to her. She is too far.

_She is my wife. We're in our home. She is Aderyn Surana, and she is invincible._ I press my eyes together, and my lungs fight for breath.  _She is my wife…_

"So. Okay."

I open my eyes.

Aderyn stands back in our kitchen, wearing her sturdy skirts and an apron. She smiles as if nothing in the world could be the matter, and I desperately want to believe that smile. But my breath still comes in short, and I  _ache._  Maker, but I haven't ached this much since the time I decided not to take lyrium for a day. When was the last time I took lyrium?

"Let's pass the time, shall we? We'll play a getting-to-know-you game." Aderyn is still smiling like she's my wife and we're in our home, but I know those words. She spoke them in the Harrowing Chamber, and she wasn't smiling.

"Addie, stop."

Something shifts in her face. A sharpness creeps in, and she glows purple at the edge. She grins wider. "I'll start. My name is Aderyn Surana, and I could have been yours if you didn't resist. If you had stayed in the Fade with me all those years ago, all of this could have been yours." And that's when everything about her changes, and she turns to something svelte and naked, moving toward me with an erotic sway.

"Stay back, demon." My voice is hoarse, and I draw my sword. Did I always have a sword? I can't recall.

"I have a secret to tell you, Cullen Rutherford." She floats closer, my sword sinking into her abdomen as easy as it might sink into butter or snow. Her lips tickle my ear, and the first hot tears escape my eyes.

"You can have nothing to say to me," I croak, but she only grins and runs her tongue up the length of my ear.

"Aderyn Surana is dead."

* * *

"Cullen.  _Cullen_."

My eyes fly open, and I sit up quickly. The tent is dark and cold, but I am drenched in sweat. My heart pounds, and my eyes itch with sleep and tears. I scrabble for the knife that should be next to my bedroll - there is always a knife next to my bedroll.

"Cullen, stop."

I suck in a deep breath through my nose as a hand grips my shoulder. Beside me, speaking in soft, accented tones, is Cassandra.

"Maker's breath," I curse, rubbing the dream from my eyes. "I apologize, Cassandra. I shouldn't have..." I am unsure how to finish that thought, but I'm also certain I've done something worth apologizing for.

"You were shouting in your sleep."

I sigh. Of course I was. I glance at Cassandra's abandoned bedroll, and I wonder how much sleep I've cost her after perhaps the longest days of our entire lives. She had thought it prudent to share because there were so few tents to go around, but I can't help but feel guilty that she ended up sharing with me instead of Leliana or Josephine.

"Lyrium," I mutter.

"I just didn't want you to wake the others."

"Right."

She sighs, scratching at her short hair. "I am here, my friend. If you want to talk."

I shake my head. There's nothing to say - Aderyn is dead. She died yesterday. The sun has risen and fallen without her in the world, and that's all there is. She is with the Maker now, and there are all these people to take care of. All these people who look to me and Cassandra to  _lead_.

"She was...she was an extraordinary woman. I'll miss her, too."

"She had…" I sigh. Perhaps there is something to say after all. Perhaps there is  _everything_  to say, and what I'm really afraid of is the possibility that if I start talking, I will never stop. My voice will crack and I will stutter, and then my voice will crack some more, because she was always the one that made me stutter. "She had a way of making you feel important. Of making you feel seen and heard."

Cassandra nods. "Strange to think I met her as my prisoner." She shakes her head. "Strange to think she forgave me."

Those words land straight in my gut, for I was her captor once, too. I thought I was her protector, but the reality should have been clear the day I watched as Greagoir pressed the sunburst into her forehead.  _Should have._  But I buried that truth in layers of duty, and I didn't begin to feel it until Kirkwall was a ruin, and I was not a Templar anymore. I meant to be a protector, but allowing them to brand her made me a jailor whether I liked it or not.

"Cullen - " She takes a deep breath, and "I don't know the whole of what was between you, but I know I never saw her so alive as when she was looking at you."

_Alive._ But she's not alive anymore. She was a bright spot in this crumbling world. She was marked, chosen, The Herald of Andraste, the only one who was mending the world instead of tearing it into ever smaller pieces. She was the elven apprentice who smiled as I stuttered, who used to hum under her breath as she read in the library. She made me want to sing with her. She made me want to be extraordinary with her.

And now, Aderyn Surana is dead.

"I have to...forgive me. I need air."

I don't wait for Cassandra's response. I slip my feet into my boots and leave the tent in nothing more than my wool shirt and breeches. The cold hits me like a wall, and I need it to wake up.

There world seems to swirl around me, the ground spinning too fast beneath my feet. Was it only the night before last that she washed away the horseshit thrown at my head? Was it only the night before last that she caught me surveilling mages like a sneak, because I could not trust them after she asked me to? Was it only the night before last that she kissed me so hungrily, that her heart pounded so close to mine?

Did that kiss mean she forgave me for mistrusting mages? Did she understand that I trusted her with everything I had? Did she know that? Did she know that in my mind, she was Aderyn Surana, and she was invincible?

My breath fogs in heavy clouds in front of me, and I try to grab onto any answers I can find.

I know she left that night shaken. I know she wouldn't look me in the eye when I asked about her scars. Did she forgive me for my shock?

_No._ My mistrust and my haunted past and my one-time titles...those she could forgive. But not my suprise. I must have known. On some level, I must have known that she could have been mistreated. But I'd convinced myself that abuse was something that lived far from Kinloch Hold. Abuse lived in the Gallows, and Aderyn Surana was helpless but safe.

Maker, but I should have  _known_.

My mind still races. I cling to the first thing that I can, and it is the Chant.

"Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever." The words slip from my mouth easily. How many times have I spoken them? My voice is a whisper, but it brings infinite comfort. "But the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction."

I am repentant. I have faith. And someday, I will go to the Maker's side. I think...I think He will let us stand together there, Aderyn and I. He must, or all this love will have been for...what, exactly? If not for this world, it must be for the next.

_If not for this world._ Andraste's ashes, but what I wouldn't give for just one more miracle. One more chance to apologize to her. One more chance to just...look her in the eye. She could always say so much with those dark, beautiful eyes.

I finally catch my breath. The tent stands behind me, bedroll waiting for me to sleep fitfully once more.

"C-commander?"

In front of me stands Kevan, the young messenger who can't be more than thirteen.

"You should be sleeping," I say to him. "Get one of the older messengers to take this shift from now on."

"I - yes, sir. Of course, sir. But. Um. I have something to tell you. Sister Leliana's runners sent me. She's  _alive_."

"Sister Leliana? Was that in question?" I rub my temples. Maker, if Leliana is in trouble -

"No. Not her.  _She_  is alive. The Herald."

My heart makes a sick leap. It's too much - pray for a miracle, and one shall appear? The Maker has not worked in such literal ways in my experience. And...and she was in Haven. She was buried under the snow. We all saw it.  _Aderyn Surana is dead._  "What are you saying, Kevan?"

"Leliana's people saw a green light and a woman coming up the mountainside with a dog. A big mabari. It's her, Commander. Found herself a dog, too. A  _ghost_ dog, they're saying. Not that I believe in ghost dogs, mind you. I just thought...I thought you'd want to know."

"I - forgive me. I just...where?"

"She was coming from the south slope of the mountain." Kevan points behind him, and I take off running past him.

I should have thanked him, but my throat has closed firmly, and I don't think I could possibly force out any words. It's a mistake, I know. This whole thing is a mistake. It's going to be someone entirely different when I arrive, someone else with a glowing green hand. Someone who has a dog. Andraste will have sent a new prophet, for her last is spent.

As I run, the rumor rustles through camp. People emerge sleepily from tents, others murmur beside fires. They stare at their commander in his shirtsleeves in the cold, but I don't care.  _Just one last miracle._

I dash past the fringes of camp. It's dark in front of me, with only the quickly dimming glow of camp behind me to light my way.

A green light flares in the dark. My heart pounds - I know that flash. I know that hand. It flashes again, and I see the silhouettes of a dog and an elf in the snow.

My unlaced boots drag on the ground, and I slip a little down the steep slope. The elf and the dog still climb towards me, their movements steady but bearing every sign of exhaustion.

When I reach them, a hot tear slides down my cheek.

"Addie."

She looks up at me, and I catch her just as she collapses. Her brow furrows, distorting the sunburst on her forehead. "Cullen?"

"Addie, you're alive. It's you." My nose runs in the cold, and I know it's because I'm weeping. I pull her close, and her skin is icy under my fingers. I'm sure I'll never ever let her go. "Maker be praised."

"Don't say that," she whispers, and her muscles go limp in my arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! I know it's been awhile! Lots of real life things in the last month--I got a new job and moved to a new city, and as it turns out, those things take up a lot of time. I know this chapter is a little short (and a little heavy on the angsty angst), but nightmares are fun to write, and I really wanted to get a chapter up. So thanks for sticking with! Mwah!


	21. Skyward

The Fade swirls around me, all of my lovely, soft blues and grays shimmering with the glow of familiar comforts. My feet travel lightly, as though floating on clouds, and silk robes drape with liquid grace from my loose shoulders.

Long table stretch for miles in front of me, just like they always have here, just like they seemed to in the Tower, where mages would gather to study and debate and whisper of forbidden things. My hand finds the handle of a teapot, and I pour myself a cup of tea, the heady scent of spices filling the air. I sink into the embrace of one of the chair at the table, simply enjoying the presence of the endless bookshelves before me and the almost-forgotten comfort of warmth on my skin.

But my faded haunt has new additions, now. The stained glass of dreamy windows cast light on snowflakes, and the suggestion of mountains loom in the distance. My bed from the Chantry in Haven sits tucked in a corner at the edge of seeing, and the clang of soldiers practicing at swordplay is a metallic whisper just within earshot. For a moment, a mirror appears, and I see that I am different, too. My robes bear the watchful eye of the Inquisition, my forehead bears the sunburst that broke me for a time, and my hand bears the mark that is either saving me or tearing me apart. The mirror is only there for a moment, and then shatters. Glass spills in glittering shards to the cloudy ground.

Through it all, old and new, Myrrha's presence clings to the air. She'll show herself when she's ready. She's already filling me up, and that's enough.

I used to be afraid of feeling this way. I was a strong mage, a good mage, and I learned my lessons well. But all the lessons in the world didn't save me from spinning endlessly and helplessly in my own mind.

The Tower told me if I obeyed the rules, if I studied hard and grew strong, I would be safe.

The Chantry told me the Maker was watching over me.

The Inquisition told me I was chosen by Andraste.

I believed them. I believed that the world had order and sense and purpose. I believed life traveled in straight lines, that everyone had a beginning and an end that were already planned. No deviating. No choice but to take one step and the next and the next. No way to live but to endure.

But the world feels fuzzier tonight, the way forward indistinct. All of the fractured pieces of me scatter across this room, and for the first time, it all feels like mine. Like somehow, all of this might add up to a person, a life. If it doesn't have to mean anything, then I can just... _be._ Or not. I could choose not to be. And if I can choose that, I can choose anything, and I prefer to live.

"Myrrha?" I call to the Fade.

The air shimmers red at the edges, and all the cracked pieces of glass rise back into the air, spinning together to form a fire-haired elf with the bluest of eyes. She smiles.

"Hello, little sparrow."

"I'm here to rest. For a little while."

"I know." She just stands before me, though, head cocked to the side as if she were listening to something far away. I abandon my seat and move toward her, the silken train of my robes turning to feathers at the ends. I take her hand in mine and we listen together.

And there it is, floating above the sounds of my Fade-home - a wolf's howl. I look to Myrrha, and before I've really decided to go, I spread my wings and take to the sky.

"I'll be back later."

* * *

 

I wheel through the Fade until it turns to a mountain camp, until snow swirls around me and blinds my way. I flit to the top of a floating Inquisition tent, eyes darting across this reflection of my people hiding in the cold.

Beyond the camp, extending in a dozen directions, are paths leading deeper into the mountains. The snowfall obscures nearly all but the beginnings, but all look treacherous and narrow. I fly to one of them, and the way forward shifts. Walls spring up around it, turning from a mountain path to a tunnel made of stone, the same sort of stone that lined the walls of the catacombs beneath Kinloch Hold.

My heart stutters at the echo of a memory of being lost and newly Tranquil, and wandering lost through those catacombs for more than a day. Kinnon found me there, Kinnon who was relieved to see me, who'd been frantic when I told him how long I'd been alone. I wasn't afraid then - all I could think about was whatever lost alchemical ingredient I'd been sent to find in the first place. I didn't care that I hadn't had a proper meal. I didn't care that I had nothing to drink. I was lost, but didn't matter.

I take a few tentative hops into the narrow passage, stone freezing under my sparrow-feet.  _I need to find my way._  Except I'm not Tranquil anymore, and fear crawls over my feathers.

I take flight and zoom back to the center of camp, my heart racing impossible fast in my aching chest. I can't be lost like that again. I can't look at those paths.

I look to this shimmering, impermanent camp instead, and I wonder which of these tents holds Cullen. I wonder which one holds me, and I wonder if those two tents are one and the same.  _Maker be praised_ , he said when he saw me. What had I said in return? I can't remember. I should have said  _you are extraordinary._

For a moment, I think I can feel his arms holding me tight, saving me from the cold and the hurt and loneliness. I almost feel the shared warmth of another body, too - the dog that came to me like a ghost in the mountains, that guided me home.

_Thank you, both of you,_  I whistle, and I pray that both my saviors can feel my gratitude through the Veil.

Something stirs at the edge of my vision, and I turn my head sharply. For a moment, I think the mabari has found me in the Fade, but the four-legged silhouette behind me is taller than her, and leaner. He steps forward, all heavy gray fur and golden eyes in swirls of snow.

"Solas," I tweet.

"Aderyn," he replies, my name sharp on his lips. He stands up, and suddenly he is Solas the man, the tall elf walking barefoot in the snow. "You're alive."

"Yes."

His eyes widen, and take on an edge of fear. "You must wake - you'll freeze in the snow. Tell me where you are and we will come for you, lethallan."

I shake my head, stepping toward him in my own elf-skin, clad now in my sturdy Inquisition leathers. "I am here in camp."

He shakes his head, but I think he can hear the truth of it, carried here on the winds of the Fade. "How?"

"I found a  _ghilan._  A guide." I point, and the silhouette of the mabari flashes between us, bowing her head before slipping into the flurries. "And then Cullen found me. Did you not wake?"

He shakes his head. "No, da'len. How did you escape Corypheus?"

I look to the sky, the scars of the Breach rolling toward us like stormclouds, and footprints appear in the snow. "I walked."

"Tell me exactly what happened," he says, his questions turning from wonder to need, and I am grateful. Need has purpose, and I have had my fill of wonder.

"I will show you."

I spread my wings and flit away, and he follows with wolfish loping. A cliff appears, a cliff to a sheer rock face, and the only thing below is fog. Solas looks to me, waiting, but as I look at the fog beneath this cliff, I fear I have promised something I cannot deliver. For I don't dream this way, I don't  _do_  this. Nor Circle mage I've ever heard of does this. When I walk the Fade, I tread carefully, and I don't make impressions. I don't call attention.

Except here I am, flitting around like I've been flying all my life, and when I look back to the fog, The Elder One stands before another me, one that snarls at him with desperate hate.

_Exalt!_

_The Elder One._

_The will that is Corypheus._

Solas watches with golden eyes as the scene plays out before us. I watch him instead of the memory, for I was there, and I need no reminders.

But I can still hear it, and I can see shadows of it reflected in Solas' focused eyes. When my reflected self falls to her knees, an echo of the jolt stings my own legs. The whole time, my mark screams with pain at the center of my palm. And I  _hate._  Maker, I hate him for making me feel this way. I hate him for the Conclave and the rifts, for Redcliffe and all the dead in Haven. As my hate flares, the voices grow more distinct, and I almost fear I'm there still, just living these moments over and over with some fresh manipulation of time.

_You must die,_  Corypheus says.

And then, barely audible over the snap of the trebuchet rope,  _Maker take me to his side._

Those words sound hollow and foreign now, spoken by someone entirely outside myself. I wave my hand, and snow buries the memory. It's just Solas and me, the wolf and the sparrow now shaped like elves, watching each other on the far side of the Veil.

"And yet you live," Solas says, his gray eyes searching my face, full lips slightly parted.

"I woke under the snow."

He smiles, light catching on his cheekbones as he tilts his head. "And then you walked."

I nod. "And then I walked."

He steps toward me, and he reaches as if he might touch my hand. I watch him with wary eyes, but he just shakes his head. "I am so glad to see you, Aderyn Surana."

I watch him and he watches me, and then the Fade shimmers as the waking world tugs at me. Shouting voice pound against my ears, and my body slips away from the Fade.

"Don't be too glad," I say. "We're still lost."

* * *

 

Cold air rushes into my raw lungs as wakefulness rushes around me. Beside me, the dog stirs, her broad head lifting from my lap to look me in the eye. My  _ghilan,_  I called her. My guide. Looking this dog in her dark eyes, I feel something deep and real that doesn't have to be bigger or more profound than two freezing souls walking together when taking steps alone seemed all but impossible.

"Thank you, Ghilan," I say, and she rests her heavy head in my lap once again, and I think she knows her name.

The shouting voices that drew me from sleep echo across camp - Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine all yelling at each other in circles. Cullen loudest of all.

_What would you have me tell them?_

_We cannot simply ignore this!_

_And who put you in charge?_

_Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition…_

_That can't come from nowhere._

_She didn't say it could._

_Enough!_

I'm not sure what I expected to wake to. Or not - I know exactly what I expected to find here. I expected to find the dog right where she is, and I expected Cullen to be at my other side. I expected him to be worrying over me and ignoring his duty and...and it was a foolish expectation. Cullen is the commander of the Inquisition's forces. He's not my keeper.

Maker's breath, but my pounding skull would appreciate if he stopped shouting.

I shift on the cot they've put me on, and every bone in my body screams a protest louder than our shouting leaders. My mark -  _the anchor -_  flashes, sending sharp pains through my already aching arm.

"Shh," comes a voice beside me. Mother Giselle smiles in her habit like I'm a child just waking from a fever, not a grown woman just escaped an ancient magister and his pet archdemon. "You need rest."

_Rest._

"I should tell them what happened."

"You sacrificed yourself for them, and now you are returned from the dead. That is all they need to know for tonight - that a miracle occurred. That with that miracle comes the knowledge that our trials are ordained."

"There was no miracle. Only a cavern under the snow and feet to carry me away and a dog to guide me home." I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the cot, and Ghilan shifts at my feet. "Despite what others might think, I have never died." Not yesterday. Not at the Breach. Not when I was made Tranquil. I have always been only me. All of these pieces are only me.

"Of course. And the dead cannot return from across the Veil. But the people know what they saw. Or, perhaps, what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and in how it is remembered. Can we truly know the heavens are  _not_  with us?"

"Don't you find it exhausting?" I ask before I mean to. I'm cold from the inside out, I ache from head to toe, and I have never missed the fires of Kinloch Hold more. I can't sit quietly just now. "All this twisted thinking about faith and fate? All these searches for divine intention in tragedy? We closed the Breach - that was supposed to be the end. And then an ancient Magister slaughtered half our people in the middle of a celebration, you're talking about the heavens being on  _our_  side?"

I shake my head and rise to my feet, walking towards a fire. Ghilan follows close, an inky black shadow, and it feels as natural as if she had always been there. I don't want to do this. I don't want to find meaning in all this death and loss. I just want to  _be._

As I walk, Cullen sees me. His eyes lock with mine from across camp, all filled up with wonder and worry and fear. Fear for what, I can only guess. For the Inquisition, maybe. For my well-being. For him and me, for what's left between us. I pushed him away, after all. I couldn't let him touch me, and I couldn't explain why, even when I didn't believe I would have to grapple with the consequences. Even when I thought that tomorrow wasn't real at all.

Or maybe those fears are only within me, and they've clouded my ability to see what lies in his eyes. Maybe I could never see him to begin with.

My head spins, and suddenly I feel a hundred eyes on me. Soldiers and pilgrims and mages crane their necks to see me, and I can't imagine what they see. Do they truly see a Tranquil mage twice back from the dead? Do they see a prophet chosen by Andraste? Do they see an elf and a mage exempt from the usual trappings of such things? Do they see a woman of great faith?

And if they can be so wrong, how could I ever believe I had the slightest inkling what Cullen Rutherford was thinking, let alone believe I knew what some absentee had planned for me and and only me?

As everything I thought I ever knew slips through my fingers like dust, Mother Giselle begins to sing.

_Shadows fall, and hope has fled._

_Steel your heart, for one day soon_

_The dawn will come._

Leliana looks up, and her voice joins Mother Giselle's, sweet and clear and lovely as the starry sky above. And then Cullen comes in, and I remember sitting near him during prayers in the Tower's chapel, so that my voice might mingle with his.

And then more voices join in, and more and more and more, until it feels like the whole world might be standing and singing in this single moment. The notes weave between snowflakes, and this moment feels more miraculous than anything that has happened since that first tickle of magic reawakened in my fingertips.

And it's just us. It's just people. Just singing.

Maker or no Maker, fate or not fate, we can still keep singing.

* * *

 

Sleep calls to me again sooner than I'd like.

I wander through camp in the Fade, staring out at the twisting paths before us. Singing or no singing, we are still lost.

And then, Solas appears.

He's his sharp Fade-self, more angular, more  _real_  than the soft-spoken apostate he plays in the waking world. And he walks toward me, his stride full of purpose.

"I thought to find you here," he says.

"We are lost."

"Perhaps not." The paths in front of us fall still and solidify, grow distinct, but they are no less numerous. "I know of the orb Corypheus carries. It is ours. Elven."

"You have seen it here in the Fade."

"Yes, buried deep in ancient memories. Such things were foci, said to channel power from our gods."

I ignore his use of  _our._  He's made it very clear that he doesn't believe in the elven gods, and I have little patience for divinity at the moment. But even if they were 'our gods,' his words don't make any sense. "The ancient elves believed their gods had orbs that tore holes in the sky? What lovely deities."

"Clearly this was not Corypheus' plan. You stopped that."

"Then I don't understand what you're trying to say."

"Just that if the world finds out that the world was torn apart by elven magic, they might be less willing to follow an elven mage in the fight to stop it."

"No, Solas. This Inquisition, fighting Corypheus…" I almost say it's my purpose, but that's not what I mean. I mean regardless of purpose or destiny or divine intention, I want to see this through as long as I can. I want to save my gathered singers. I will not let them die in the snow.

_I will not kneel._

"I want to keep fighting. I will not slink away because of some obscure elven legend."

He smiles. "That was not my suggestion."

"Then what  _is_ your suggestion?"

The twisting paths before us widen, before shifting into one single way forward. It climbs skyward, clear and steady and heading north.

"You know the way," I say, and he smiles.

"You said before that you found a  _ghilan_? The Inquisition needs one now. Be their  _ghilan._ Be their guide."

The two of us rise into the air, and the force of Solas' dreaming carries me with him, up the path and through the mountains, into valleys and across old roads. I can feel it etch into my mind, and I'm sure that when I wake I will still know every twist and turn that we take, even though we fly so fast that the path blurs beneath us.

And then: a castle. It stretches among mountaintops, as blessedly solid as the rock itself.

"What is that?" I ask. I have no knowledge of a stronghold this deep in the Frostbacks, and yet…

Solas take a deep breath. "Home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sequence was so awesome and so visual in game that I didn't really want to dwell on mimicking it, and I also didn't want to *skip* it, so...I sort of split the difference, and IDK how I feel about it. So uh...well...I hope you enjoyed it regardless. Next chapter will find us at Skyhold! There will be Varric! Varric might have a friend! That friend's name might start with an H and call to mind a bird of prey! That friend might come with another friend whose presence may or may not be cannon! Exciting things.


	22. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note: Oh, hey guys! I usually put any notes at the end, but it's been awhile, so I wanted to say hi. I didn't forget about this story. I didn't abandon it. I just had lots of life things to do, and lots of other writing to do. But I'm here now! And I had so much fun writing this chapter. I got to see Addie again, and I got to flesh out someone new for me and the story. I'm so happy to be making this reunion while a couple of my characters get to have one of their own. See you around!

 

~ Reunion ~

* * *

_Varric_

* * *

The path to our deliverance came to her in a dream.

I wish I could say I had been more than passingly skeptical of this development. I pride myself on being a skeptic, after all. Can't get one past Varric Tethras. Except the longer I follow Aderyn Surana around the ass ends of Thedas, the more likely I am to believe she really is gabbing with Andraste every time she goes to sleep.

The progression went something like this:

Mysteriously cure her own Tranquility? Must be demonic.

Close rifts just by staring at them funny? Too good to be true.

Survive an avalanche, an ancient darkspawn, and an archdemon at the same time? I'm hardly even surprised.

Dream up a forgotten castle exactly where and when we need one? All hail the blessed Herald of fucking Andraste.

If she'd finally fallen off the sanity wagon somewhere at the end there, I would have felt very stupid for believing her. But here we are, the whole Inquisition, camping inside the walls of a great castle, and it's hardly even in ruins. There were no roads to lead us here. No obscure bit of history half remembered by Ruffles, nor some chanced upon scouting report from Nightingale. There was only Aderyn Surana and her newly acquired ghost-dog, come back from the dead.

We've been here for nearly a fortnight now. Some people have moved into the less terrible nooks and crannies of the castle itself, but we're mostly all still sleeping in tents and spending our days clearing out Skyhold's towers, cavernous room by cavernous room.

Usually I'm one of the idiots hauling wood and ruined chandeliers out of the castle. Been bullseyeing my fair share of enormous rats, too. It's not bad work, honestly. Lots of time to tell stories. Lots of time to watch people band together. Best of all, it's exhausting - much better for the soul than sitting around dim campfires, hoping not to freeze to death.

But I'm not clearing debris today. I skirt past Tiny and Buttercup, heading for the ramparts. I guess I should be worried that my visitor won't find us up here, but I've never been very worried about her ability to get where she needed to be. Storm through dangerous places like a ronto in a glass house, maybe. Shout where she should whisper, always. But never arrive? That's not her style, not at a party that promises such wonders as lost fortresses and giant monsters to play with.

I told her to meet me at the northwest corner of the ramparts, where we could be hidden away by the ruins of the tavern nobody has even started to think about clearing out yet. Still need an infirmary. And an armory. And a giant hallway in which to entertain dignitaries. The essentials, you know. Right now, as my boots scrape old stone and lingering frost, the only thing there is to see is mountains. No heroes. No old friends.

"Dearest H," A voice calls from behind me, and I whirl around, searching shadows for Hawke. "Hey. It's been awhile. Too long. I hope you're not dead, because I don't think I can take much more tragedy right now."

"Hawke - " Her voice echoes from somewhere inside the ruined tavern, and I stare at it. Waiting, as usual. Hawke loves to make me wait.

"Look," she continues. "I know I told you a few months ago to stay far, far away from me and all the demons pouring from the sky. It seemed like good advice at the time, but something even shittier than that is happening right now. Remember our very old magister friend? The dead one? Well, he's not dead - at least not anymore. And he's the one who's been ripping holes in the sky. So that's been lovely."

"Very funny. You're very clever. C'mon -"

"Ah, but we're not finished!" She clears her throat for dramatic effect, and I make a show of sighing in return. "It might be time to get the family back together. I'll send the messenger with a time and place for our meet. With all the sappy feelings in my squishy, squishy heart, -V."

I settle my hands on my hips.

Not two feet in front of me, Jessa Hawke dives through an ancient, crumbling shutter, rolls across the ramparts, and lands nimbly on her feet. She spreads her arms, one hand twirling her simple hardwood staff, like some Lowtown street performer after a show. Except no Lowtown performer ever caught the light quite like that, like she might be invincible. Which is stupid, because I know very well that Hawke isn't invincible at all.

"It was a good letter," she says. "I especially liked the part where the world was coming to an end, but still you managed to retain some squishiness in your heart. A poet, you are."

"Maker's breath, I missed you." It's been over a year since I last saw her in person. Too long to crack jokes forever.

She stoops so I can wrap my arms around her in a back-clapping hug, but then she leans back and pulls my feet off the ground so she can take me for a twirl. Her laugh echoes so happily from her body to mine that I forget to hate her for picking me up.

"Oh, Varric, I missed you too."

"Yeah, yeah. But put me down, okay?"

She sets me down, and I take a step back. She looks harder than I remember. Her Hightown-fed curves and round cheeks have given way to chiseled angles I haven't seen her wear since she was a 20-year old smuggler with a too-big attitude. But this Hawke is older than that wire of a girl - and the lines around her eyes remind me of that far too readily.

"You look like shit," Hawke says.

"I've been fighting demons and avoiding certain death for months. What's your excuse?"

"If you haven't noticed, Thedas is a mess. I just left a group of mages in northern Ferelden who were trying to get some Tranquil to _enchant_ with red lyrium."

"Well, _shit_."

"It was exactly as disastrous as it sounds. Anders and I managed to smuggle a few survivors to the Mages' Collective. They're still active enough to be helpful, thank the Maker."

I wince at the mention of Blondie, and hurt immediately appears in Hawke's eyes. "Sorry. I shouldn't do that."

"You still hate him."

"Can you blame me? Really? He tore our whole lives apart."

"Do you really believe we'd all still be living in Kirkwall, throwing parties to make my Hightown neighbors blush, if only Anders hadn't done what he did?"

"Maybe I do."

"The Gallows were going to fall, and there were Circles all over Thedas that were no better. I've talked to so many Ferelden mages in the last couple years - it was always a restrictive Circle, but after the Blight it was much worse. And what they did in Dairsmuid? I can't - "

"Hey," I say, cutting her off. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she sighs. "You're right. There was a lot going on."

"He's my family, Varric."

And he is. I know that. That's what makes this so hard. That's why I can't tell her that there were people in Kirkwall who died who never had to. I can't tell her that blood is on Blondie's hands. I can't tell her that even if it wasn't inevitable, it didn't have to be _us._  

There's a vision burned in my brain of a flash of a girl, shock of dark hair and a smile big as her dad's. In my mind she's tiny, but I bet she's taller now. _Bethany._ They named her Bethany.

"Where's the squirt?" I ask.

"I took her to Kirkwall before I left. She's with Aveline and Donnic. Seemed like the only thing to do."

The unspoken thing that hovers around her words is that she couldn't leave Beth alone with Anders, because who knows what he'd decide to do. Who knows what _Justice_ would decide to do.

"I almost didn't come," she said. "If you hadn't mentioned Corypheus, I wouldn't have. But...Maker's breath, Varric. He was dead."

"I know."

"We killed him. We checked."

"Yep."

"Then what am I doing so far away from my daughter?"

I take a deep breath. "Buckle up. This story is going to take a while."

* * *

When I finish, the sun is high over Skyhold, and Hawke lets out a low whistle.

"I'm sorry about Haven," she says.

"Yeah. Me too."

"This place is incredible, though. Your Herald did a good job dreaming it up."

"I'm pretty sure she just dreamed up a way to get here. Castle already existed."

"Of course. How silly of me." She searches the stones for answers, as if it might whisper some explanation for their improbable existence. "So...is she healed?"

"Well, she definitely casts spells. Does she have feelings? Sometimes when you're talking to her you really can't tell."

"But she's your leader."

"Well, not officially. Not yet." I grin, and motion my head toward the courtyard. "A nightingale told me there's going to be a bit of a ceremony this very afternoon. And from up here we'll get a great view."

"History in the making," she says.

"Yeah, maybe. Or maybe we'll all die by dragon fire, and there won't be enough time before the apocalypse for anything to seem historic."

"That's very cheery."

"There's no money in writing happy stories."

"Lovely world we live in."

"Ain't that the truth."

She smiles in the sun despite the conversation, leaning forward on the ramparts. "I got used to knowing faces when I looked at a crowd."

"Well there's at least one familiar face. You'll be shocked."

"Who? Someone from Kirkwall? Don't tell me Isabela has been lying to me about her whereabouts."

"No, I think she really is a pirate queen these days. Do you recall one Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford?"

"No. Varric. No. Not him."

I laugh at her horror. "He's not so bad. Look, there he is." I point to where he's ushering a crowd into the courtyard. It's filling quickly, and the whole of the castle swells with their anticipation.

"Maker, why would you let him join up?"

"As it turns out, they recruited him on purpose, and I was dragged in as a prisoner. So I don't really have that kind of sway."

"And he's okay with having a mage as your leader?"

"Eh, he's stupid in love with her. I think he's fine."

"Stop it."

"Oh, you'll see. It's only slightly less dysfunctional than you're imagining."

"Maker. Well, at least you'll have something juicy to write in your book."

"What makes you think there's a book?"

"Oh, there's a book."

I grin like she caught me, like there is most certainly a book. Truth is, there _was_ a book. It got buried in Haven, with all the men and women we lost, and I haven't had the heart to start again. I don't even know where I'd begin. At the Conclave? Is that even the beginning? In medias res, where it's revealed that I'm at least a little bit responsible for unleashing a crazy darkspawn overlord onto all of Thedas? That'll be a great intro. _Dear Readers, I am the unwitting architect of your destruction._

"Oh, shit," Hawke says, pulling me from my self-pity. "That's her, isn't it?"

I follow her gaze to where the Herald climbs the steps alongside the Seeker. She looks...small isn't the right word. Humble, maybe, but that's not right either. She looks like two people, one that's her, the person she was born as. Aderyn Surana. And the rest of her is a cloak she wears, something that extends beyond her slender bones. That's the person the courtyard cheers for. That's the one her followers see. And the two halves add up to something else, _someone_ else. It scares me a little, but I don't think it ever scares her. She is graceful, this dual being, in the way that means full of some Maker-given grace. And in a way that makes a poet out of my squishy, squishy heart.

"Yeah," I confirm. "That's her."

Cassandra speaks, but distance and the crowd muffle the words. It doesn't matter what she said; Aderyn doesn't hesitate as she takes the sword from Nightingale, and that's enough. With most crowds, with most speakers, this would be the time for a massive cheer. That cheer would buzz in our ears for days.

But not today. As Aderyn Surana takes that sword, holds it like she's been holding swords her whole life, the courtyard goes completely silent.

"Inquisition!" she shouts. The force of her voice is huge. She speaks so quietly most of the time. I can hardly believe that voice lives in her, and I wonder if it belongs instead to that bigger self she wears. The Herald-self.

"Some of you wish to put the world back together exactly as it was. But our Thedas was broken long before the Conclave. It has been broken since elves were enslaved by humans. It has been broken since we started locking mages in Towers. Since we started leashing our Templars with lyrium. Since we started performing the Rite of Tranquility."

The silence is taut as a bowstring. At any moment, it will snap. Aderyn takes a deep breath and continues at exactly the right moment, right when the dam of sound might have broken.

"I swear to you!" she calls. "I swear as an elf, as a mage, as your anchor against the rifts, I will fight with you! I will fight with every one of you who has been buffeted by power, whose life has been ravaged by a fight not of your choosing. Today, I choose _this_ fight - I choose the fight against Corypheus! I choose the fight against the injustices that chain you! We will make a better world - a freer world. Today, I choose this Inquisition!"

And then, roaring cheers.

I don't cheer with them; I've never been much of a joiner, after all. But I feel it, this swell. I have never seen her look more proud. She lifts that huge sword over her head, and the crowd grows even louder, louder than the Hanged Man when it's full of Isabela's pirate friends.

"They're going to love her in Orlesian Court!" Hawke screams into my ear.

I chuckle. But as much as the moment falls over me in waves, I know there's a long road ahead. I've seen institutions fall, after all, but their ghosts tend to stick around.

Below, Curly looks up to the Herald, and their eyes lock. Moments like these, I wouldn't be surprised if the two of them had some kind of telepathy. I think when I start my book up again, I'm going to put in there. For color. I'm only half convinced I'd be making it up.

"WILL YOU FOLLOW?" he calls, and the question is echoed by criers up and down the ramparts.

The crowd roars again, mouths shouting and gauntlets beating shields and boots stomping the ground.

"WILL YOU FIGHT?"

The sound swells.

"WILL WE TRIUMPH?"

They cheer some more, because if they cheer, they might believe it. They might believe that we can beat an ancient darkspawn magister and his pet archdemon. That we can do it all from the crumbling ruins of a long forgotten castle. They might believe that this little elf in front of them is ordained to lead them into a shining future full of rainbows and mabari puppies and enough sweet rolls to make you fatter than a feast day nug.

"YOUR LEADER! YOUR HERALD! YOUR INQUISITOR!"

The light catches her _just so_. She looks like some painting in a Chantry, the kind that sits in corners for people to pray to.

As the world looks to the Herald, I look to Hawke. I always saw a hero in her, even when she was just a refugee smuggler with a foul mouth and a fireball or two up her sleeve.

Right now, she frowns a little. There was a time when the people of Kirkwall saw a shine on her. Not like a painting in a Chantry, but maybe like some oversized bronze statue outside the Viscount's keep. To lots of people, she was bigger than herself.

Now she's just a figure on the ramparts, and she's not welcome in the city where she shone the most. She chose Anders and Beth over her city. She chose _partner_ and _mother_ over _Champion_.

I think that might be killing her a little, even though I know the reverse would've killed her faster.

* * *

The crowd below disperses slowly, and the Herald - the _Inquisitor_ \- moves into the castle with Curly, Ruffles, and Nightingale. Seeker doesn't follow.

"Hey, so...if you don't want to sleep in the cold tonight, I think it's time for some introductions."

"Are you going to grab me your newly crowned Inquisitor? And you say you don't have sway."

"Yeah. Hopefully I can do this without a Seeker of the Truth lobbing off my head."

"She might miss. You're very short."

"Ah, dwarf jokes. Have we stooped so low?"

"You don't have to stoop to get low."

"I asked for that."

"You did." She smiles. "I'm looking forward to a closer look. I'll even find a stool so you can have one too."

"Haha. You're hilarious."

"I know. Now go on and fetch me a prophet."

* * *

_Hawke_

* * *

Varric exits the main structure with his tiny elf in tow. I'll admit to being rather fond of the poetry of the moment - for right now, I'm a hawk on the ramparts, watching the world move beneath me.

I have no idea what to really make of this particular world, though. The Inquisition seems...holy, I guess. Holier than I expected for anything that Varric could get mixed up in. There are quite a few Mothers floating through the ranks, especially for a movement that's been deemed heretical by the Chantry. Maybe that's wrong. Maybe you don't get labeled a heretic unless you have something to say about the gods.

I wonder what Sebastian would make of all this. Not that I ever much listened to his religious advice. And not that he'll ever speak me again. Not unless I decide to execute the father of my child.

Maker's breath, but I wish everything were different.

"...Are you really not going to tell me who we're going to meet?"

"Shit, Inquisitor. This title change has you very impatient."

"Is Cassandra going to kill you because you've brought someone dangerous?"

"Oh, she's dangerous. A bird of prey, you might say."

"A what? Oh. _Oh_."

The two of them round the corner, and I make sure to give my most heroic slouch. I have a reputation to maintain, after all.

"Inquisitor, meet Hawke, The Champion of Kirkwall."

She pauses at the sight of me, standing serene as any Tranquil mage I've ever seen. But she has a staff at her back and I just watched her give a rousing speech, and _shit_ , but that brand is so clear on her face. I can't take my eyes off it.

"Pleased to meet you, Champion." She angles her head, trying to catch my eye in a way that says she most definitely knows what I'm staring at.

"I - " I clear my throat as I tear my eyes away, force myself to really look at _her_ , not that brand. "I don't use that title much anymore."

"You can look if you want," she says. "I do not hide it."

_This is going well._

"Hawke," Varric says, stepping closer. "Meet the Inquisitor, who knows exactly rude she's being."

"I apologize," she says. A smile tugs at her lips, and that might be even stranger than the serenity. "I think the new title has made me tyrant already."

"See, she jokes! You'll get along great. Go forth and swap war stories about fighting Corypheus."

I'm not sure that was a joke at all.

"No, I'm the one being rude. I'm sorry. I shouldn't - I'm sorry." As I flail for words, she just waits for me to finish, her tilted dark eyes impassive below her strong elven brow. I clear my throat.

"Varric tells me you've fought him before," she says, as if I didn't just make an ass of myself.

"Varric tells me you've already dropped half a mountain on the bastard," I counter. "I'm not sure what I can tell that he hasn't already."

"Let's assume he has told me very little about his previous encounter with Corypheus, save for your presence."

I raise a brow at Varric, and he just shrugs. "Thank you, Varric. That's very helpful."

"It felt like your story to tell."

So I tell her. I tell her about the carta and the prison, about Larius and Janeka. About the blood. My blood. About killing that darkspawn dead. I even tell her about the deals my father made, some of the reasons I'm here.

As I spill this family history, I can't think about anything but Beth. It's already been a month since I saw her last. She'd run right into Aveline's arms when I left her there. Will she run back into mine? That's a stupid, selfish thought. I don't want her to miss me. I want her to be happy with Aveline and Donnic. I want her to fall for Kirkwall the way I fell for Kirkwall, and never worry about where she came from at all.

Most of all, I _need_ to show her that we do not shirk our duties. We do not run from fights. When my family needed me, I made a living the only way I could. When my city needed me, I risked every exposure to bring them peace. When my fellow mages needed me, I defended them against certain death. And with Corypheus, the world is calling me back to battle. When called, I need Beth to know that this Hawke will always be a Champion. Heroism is the best lesson I know how to live, and I need her to see what it looks like to do something grand without being a murderer. I need that for me, and for her. For Anders. I just wish it didn't hurt so much.

_Are you happy, Father?_ I wonder. _You made a deal with the Wardens to be with your family, and now I have to finish Corypheus before I can be with mine. Blood of the Hawke._

I don't tell Inquisitor Aderyn Surana, formerly Tranquil Herald of Andraste, that I left my daughter behind to be here. I don't mention that I have a daughter at all.

"We killed him. I swear it," I tell her instead.

"I believe you."

And just like that, I'm grateful to her. I've been pacing through the whole story, throwing my arms around, and she's still standing completely still. I spun this ridiculous story, and with those tiny words, she shows me why they follow her, glowing hand and special powers notwithstanding.

"You needed much less convincing than I expected."

"Well, our Herald has come back from the dead a couple of times now. If anyone understands reincarnation, it's her." Varric grins, but the Inquisitor just shakes her head.

"I have never died."

"You keep saying that, and nobody believes you." Varric is being playful, but the Inquisitor's brow furrows. I think it's the most emotion I've yet to see on her face. "Look, I'm going to get drunk before Curly figures out what's going on and tells the Seeker. You two are welcome to join me if you don't mind the fuss."

I smile and shake my head. "I'll enjoy my last few moments free of fuss, thank you."

"Your Inquisitorial Highness?" Varric asks.

"No. Thank you," she says.

Varric claps me on the shoulder as he walks past, and I smile as he walks away. He seems so much the same as he always was, and the stability is grounding in this world gone to pieces. The world needs a dwarf like that. _I_ need a dwarf like that.

And when he's gone, it's just me and the Inquisitor and the mountains, and I have no idea what to say.

"I knew Anders once," she says. "In Kinloch Hold."

"I know," I say. She blinks, tilting her head like some tiny bird trying to puzzle out the world. "You were part of a list of injustices in the Circle, actually. He told me what they did to you. Made you Tranquil for crimes your friend committed, even after you'd been Harrowed. He wanted to come with me when he heard the Herald of Andraste was you. It would have been a disaster to have him here, of course. But for what it's worth, we're both sorry for what happened."

"Is that what he told you?" She laughs, a bitter thing, and looks away to the waning sunlight. "They made me Tranquil for crimes I committed all on my own."

"What are you talking about?"

"I helped a blood mage escape the Tower. That blood mage went on to poison the Arl of Redcliffe and set in motion events that killed hundreds of people." She turns to look me straight in the eye, and I cannot look away. "I was not innocent."

"There must have been more to it than that."

"There always is." She tucks her raven-black hair behind a pointed ear, and she takes a deep breath. "Those most involved in my sentence thought it was a mercy."

"Was it?"

"No. It was not." Her eyes darken to nearly black, and she frowns into shadows. I shiver, thinking of Karl, the first love of my first love. He pleaded for death, and I can still hear the horror in his voice, nearly ten years later, echoing at the edge of hearing.

"Maybe it was all fate. You're here, now, after all. Healed. Leading a movement into a brighter future. Giving rousing speeches. Seems like destiny."

"Ha. That's that what I thought at first, too."

"But not anymore, I take it?"

"No. Not anymore." She sighs, finally relaxing her perfect posture as if she's suddenly remembered how to slouch. "How is he? Anders, I mean."

"Oh, he's lovely. On the run. Helping people best he can. Trying not to let the demon inside him take over. Resisting the urge to wreak terrible havoc in what pockets of peace are left to this world. It's all very ordinary." I don't know whether to laugh or cry about that. My golden revolutionary, my fallen hero. Maker, I hope he's only healing the sick. _Maker please_ , for that's what he promised. He'd only be healing. The revolution is already started. He's done his work.

"He always was a rebel, and he always did care." She looks to me with reassurance. I fight the urge to pick her brain, to try to piece together the boy that Anders had been long ago, and the man he became before there ever was a Justice. I want to know how much of what I love is real. How much of what broke us was never him at all.

But I know better. For me, there never was just an Anders. There was always Anders and Justice, and I fell in love with all of him. I made a life with all of him. And it was all of him that broke us. Every bit. There's nothing else, no extricating the two of them. Not for me. Not until _he_ wants to try.

_We'll go to Tevinter,_ I told him. _We can find a way._

But he said no. And he meant it.

"Inquisitor - " I take a deep breath, dragging my mind away from Anders. "I want you to know that Corypheus is my responsibility. I don't know exactly what happened, but I'm the one who let him out. I will see him defeated. Whatever it takes."

She opens her palm so I really see that green gash for the first time. It glows in the twilight, casting eerie shadows on her face. For a moment, it illuminates her. I see the shadows of the Tranquil on her, the pieces of a powerful apprentice that Anders described, the aura of a hero. She's not the prettiest woman I've ever seen, but in that moment, she is beautiful.

"He is my responsibility, too," she says.

"Then let's kill him for good this time, shall we?"

A smile tugs at her serene mouth. "Yes. Let's."


	23. At the War Table

Ghilan sits tall beside me as I stare at the war table. We've all gathered, my advisors and I. Cullen scowls and paces, and Josephine rolls her eyes at Leliana. Cassandra has been brooding for all the days Hawke has been here, _what-ifs_ painted in angry furrows on her brow. She's punched Varric in the face. She almost punched _me_ in the face.

Except now Hawke is here, too, twirling her staff idly as she cracks jokes between heavy sighs. Varric, thankfully, is still alive.

We've found new things to argue about, now. It's constant.

"My contacts with the Wardens are here," Hawke says, pointing to a village near the north eastern shore of Lake Calenhad. "We can be there in a matter of days - and if the Wardens have anything to do with this, we should see them _now_."

"We know that Corypheus is making an attempt on Empress Celine's life," Josephine says. "The Inquisitor should be in court, making connections, positioning herself - "

"And what will we tell all the refugees in Orlais their savior is doing while the rifts persist?" Cassandra asks. "Are we to abandon them to the demons while the one person who can help them titters away with nobles in Val Royeaux?"

"Have we forgotten the _civil war_ in Orlais?" Cullen says. "Even if we wanted to get to court, we'd have to fight our way through two separate armies to get there."

"Nonsense," Leliana dismisses. "My agents can - "

"Can what? Dress as decoys while we smuggle the Inquisitor through battlefields? I won't allow it."

"The Wardens - "

"Corypheus - "

"The rifts - "

I grit my teeth through the noise. Ghilan growls beside me, perhaps sensing how tense I've become. I clench my fist tight, so tight that lightning appears at my fingertips. None of them look my way. None of them stops shouting.

I unfurl my fingers, and a bolt of summoned lightning _cracks_ at the center of the war table, singing the star labeled 'SKYHOLD.' Josephine, yelps, and Hawke scampers backwards, dropping her staff in the process.

And then, _silence._ Blessed silence. The kind I can't seem to find awake or in dreams of late. I grit my teeth. I don't want to think about dreaming at all.

"Enough," I say. Josephine winces, and I take a deep, steadying breath. "That's quite enough." I stare for a moment at the map in silence, at the pieces for Cullen's men and Leliana's agents and Josephine's diplomats. I take another moment before breaking the silence, because I know I can only strike this table like that but one time.

"Josephine, do we have anyone to spare that we could send ahead to Val Royeaux? Someone already known at court?"

She sighs, flipping through the papers on her board. "Perhaps not an actual member of the Inquisition, but I could leverage some allies I have there already. I could also make personal appearances at a gala or two. That might make a difference."

"Good. Leliana, you and your agents will ensure that Ambassador Montilyet arrives in Val Royeaux safely, yes?"

"Of course, Inquisitor."

"Cullen, your forces were hit the hardest in Haven. We've talked about taking some time to recruit and rebuild - I think that's a good idea. And if you can spare any men, we may be able to contain the threat of certain key rifts in eastern Orlais and western Ferelden. On a cautious basis, of course."

He looks at me with clear eyes, and he simply nods. "We will be sure to send mages who have learned Solas' technique for calming the rifts with each company."

"Good. And I will go to Crestwood with Hawke."

"Inquisitor," Cullen says. "There are reports out of Crestwood of a large rift underwater. You should bring a contingent of soldiers with you to aid in the fight."

"Leading soldiers to fight demons and close a rift might also be a good way to explain your visit to the area for anyone who might be suspicious," Leliana adds. "We don't want too many eyes on your secret meeting with the Wardens, after all."

"Hawke?" I turn to her, and she nods.

"No objections here."

"I can bring the Chargers," I say.

"If you put them in Inquisition heraldry, I take no issue," Cullen replies.

"Done." I look around the table at my still-stunned advisors, waiting for one of them to bring up other business. They all look a little more shaken by my display than I anticipated. "I am open to suggestion. I only ask that everyone speak at a reasonable volume."

"I was starting to think that shouting was just how you people communicated," Hawke quips. "Though it's a great deal more civilized than what you used to do at the Gallows, right Knight-Captain?"

"If you believe that's lightening the mood, you are wrong," Leliana warns.

"Perhaps I should add a little _lightning_ to mood next time instead. Or is the Inquisitor the only one allowed to do that?"

Josephine giggles, and I shoot her a glare. The Champion of Kirkwall is at _least_ half swagger and sarcasm - and I enjoy the more serious remainder much more. It's clear from Varric's stories that he thinks she's simply hilarious. I might agree more readily if she didn't spend so much time throwing jabs at Cullen. He's looking haggard lately - the last thing he needs are useless insults flying off Jessa Hawke's quick tongue.

I try to look to him, but he won't meet my eye. _The Gallows_. That place is a shadow between us, and Hawke has taken every opportunity to point it out.

"Are there any other pressing matters?" Cassandra asks. "If we are to ride out tomorrow, I should at least ensure we have sufficient mounts."

"Before we disperse, I have a question," Cullen says. "Who _are_ your contacts in the Wardens? We should know who we're dealing with. If one of them is - "

"Anders is far away, if that's what you're asking," Hawke snaps.

"It's not an unreasonable question. He is a Warden. He is your lover. And his presence here would - "

"He is not my _lover._ He is my _partner_. Don't you dare be dismissive of him."

"He ruined a _city_."

"Fuck you, Knight-Captain."

"Hey!" I step between Hawke and Cullen, standing as straight as I can before the Champion. She's half a head taller than Cassandra and I've heard enough stories from Varric to know she has magic a mile deep inside her. But this my castle, and my Inquisition, and Ghilan snarls at my side. "Champion, if you cannot be civil with my Commander, you cannot be at my war table."

"Maker's breath. Do you have any idea who he is or what he's done to people just like you?"

"I helped you!" Cullen says. "In the end, I helped you!"

Hawke spits. "One day on my side, and suddenly seven years in charge of Thedas' most vicious Circle just don't count? Have you told her what you told me about Tranquility's 'wider application?'"

Her words echo in my ears. _People just like you. Wider application._

"Oh, for Andraste's sake - " Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, moving to my side. "Champion, tell us who the Wardens are. We ask only for names."

"Does it matter? Ask your Warden Blackwall - most of them are lowborn and anonymous. Their names aren't important at all." With that, she sweeps out of the room and slams the door.

"That went...well," Leliana says.

"You say that because most of your diplomatic endeavors end in assassinations," Josephine says. "I have about a thousand letters to send. If you'll excuse me, Inquisitor."

She leaves at my nod, and Cassandra and Leliana follow her out. Cullen rushes to gather his scattered reports, making sure to look everywhere but at me while he grabs at papers.

"Cullen - "

"I must sp-speak with my c-captains about sending men to the refugees." He knocks over a mug perched on the table, and he stutters out curses as drops of water and shards of ceramic fly across the stone floor.

I move towards him, but he holds out his hand. _Stop_ , his palm says. His arm shakes like an old man's, and I want to weave my fingers in his, meet him in the center of all that separates us, smooth away his shaky fears. _Wider application. People like you._ I keep my distance.

"She is not wrong," he whispers. "I said some terrible things. I did some terrible things." Shadows fall across his golden curls as he retreats into his own furs. My hand reaches toward the back of my neck before I realize what's happening, fingers moving to itch the hot edges of old scars.

"Meredith was my Knight-Commander. I had - I had no reason to distrust her. I was her second in command, but she kept things from me. Anything she thought I would object to was secret."

"I am not asking," I say. "You do not have to tell."

"No - I…" He takes a deep, steadying breath. "I want you to know that I thought Tranquility was keeping people safe. From demons. From themselves. I didn't...there were so many blood mages in Kirkwall. We felt... _I_ felt it was brutal to execute them all. I thought Tranquility would be…"

"A mercy." The word escapes my lips in a breathy whisper, something barely there. He looks up at me, eyes haunted and curls in disarray. He looks right at my hand, the hand still touching my scars, reminding me that it was all _real_. His gaze flickers to my brand, and then away, far away, to another time.

"I should not have been surprised to find scars upon your back," he says. "I wanted to think of you as safe."

My eyes flicker to the door. He's just said the very words I wanted from him that night, and yet my chest still burns with the knowledge that it took him so very long to learn them.

"I should prepare to ride out tomorrow," I murmur. I would prefer not to think of the night before Corypheus came to Haven. I would prefer not to think of the lessons Cullen has learned and the ones he hasn't. For the whole world feels so very different than it did that night, and I have too many tomorrows to think about just now. I can't let the tangle of him take up so much space in my head. And yet, when I look back at him, his eyes find mine like they always have _._ "We both of much to do."

"Addie, I - " He shakes his head. "Inquisitor. You stayed behind. In Haven, I mean, and - and it wasn't the first time I thought I lost you. Just...be safe in the field."

I nod, my eyes trained on his stammering mouth. "I promise to take care of myself, Commander." Those words, at least, are sweet on my tongue. _I can take care of myself_.

* * *

The cold and the snow are familiar, now. Comforting. I am in a new sleeping sanctuary, a new reflection in the Fade. _Haven._ The Chantry shines behind me, and the hill is thick with little houses and tents. The world is cool and still, and all around me is a swell of faith.

The Fade flickers.

Fires burn. Screams echo. Spirits swarm, some red, the others green and gold. Dying. All dying.

The Fade flickers.

The village is eerie and empty. The shadows of a handful of armored adventurers climb the hill. A dwarf. A dog. A Qunari. Leliana, too. Leliana who I know but not yet, who knows this place but not yet, who still looks to the mountains with fresh wonder.

The Fade flickers.

All is ash.

_Little Sparrow, you need rest._

Myrrha's voice carries over whispering winds. I don't want rest. I don't need rest. I'm walking, my legs carrying me higher and farther, higher and farther, into the mountains and away from my demon and warmth and easy endings.

A four-legged shadow appear on a crest before me, fur obscured by swirling snow.

"Ghilan," I breathe, even though I know that's wrong. A wolf steps forward and becomes an elf, an elf with fierce eyes and sharp edges.

"I should be calling you guide now, Inquisitor."

_Rest now, Little Sparrow._

Solas cocks his head, and my heart pounds. He shouldn't hear Myrrha. No one should. Not even me.

"Are you following me?" _Are you stalking me through the Fade? Will you go where I lead in the waking world?_ I'm not sure what I'm asking.

"No. I simply found you." I'm not sure what question he's answering, either. "Where are you going?"

"I am walking." It feels like the only answer I can give.

_Rest now, Little Sparrow._

I shut my eyes, trying to shake Myrrha's presence. I am walking. I am moving. I am the Inquisitor now - I cannot rest.

"Who speaks?" Solas asks. "A spirit of peace? Or patience, perhaps?"

_You need rest._

I open my eyes. Solas stands in the snow, wind whipping through his robes, but the cold doesn't touch his cheeks or ears. His eyes shine bright with curiosity, but I don't think he can see the way Myrrha's presence clings to me. Or maybe that's something I imagined, maybe she's not sticky on my shoulders, maybe she can't touch me at all. Maybe if I just keep climbing this mountain, I will lose her forever to blinding sun on white snow.

I shake my head. Maker help me, but I still can't tell the difference between Peace and Patience and Sloth _._

* * *

Air rushes into my lungs. I'm walking, I'm moving, I cannot _rest_. My throat constricts, and I can't catch my breath. _Rest_. That's how you catch your breath, that's how you banish the burning in your eyes. Except I _can't_. I have work to do.

Legs tangle in sheets, damp with sweat and warm from the fire. _Sheets_.

Sharp curses fly from my tongue. The windows of my room in Skyhold show stars in a black sky. Ghilan snores beside me, and it will be hours until dawn yet.

I pad to the door on the tips of my toes so as not to wake her, and I push open my door. The hall is dark and quiet - few are sleeping in the castle proper at the moment. Cullen had wanted to post a guard at my door to ensure my safety, but I'd objected and he'd acquiesced. Fresh scaffolds against old stones and scattered tools abandoned for the night are the only signs that I am not alone in the fortress.

I find my way to the balcony, and I sit at the edge where the railing is broken, legs hanging in open air. A pair of elves scurry through the quiet below, probably pilgrims or the servants of pilgrims. One glances up at me. I wave and she waves back, and I'm sure she doesn't recognize me at all.

" _Screams and swordplay, bow strings snapping and blood in the snow. But I am alive, awake, walking until legs ache and a Ghilan guides. Corpses lift me toward a throne, dead fingers on my living flesh. Herald, Harrowed, Inquisitor. They're singing of dawn, and I prefer not to cry_."

My head snaps over my shoulder, and a gaunt boy appears, sharp cheeks and wide eyes shadowed by a wide hat. I spit curses under my breath, and curse my racing heart.

"Maker's breath, Cole. I would prefer if you say hello before you do that again."

"Hello. _The red-hair spirit follows as I walk, Faded and formless through the night. Rest, Little Sparrow. But there are corpses lifting me, and they need me. The living need me too. Haven is burning, burned. The Elder One comes. My hand is anchored to him, to the fight, to fate. I don't have time for rest, and there are too many red Templars to spare time for my golden one."_

" _Cole_. Please. Not...just not now."

"You are tired, but you won't rest."

"It's complicated."

"The spirit with the red hair is trying to help, but you won't listen. Why?"

I sigh. Vivienne wanted to put Cole out into the snow as soon as she could remember him long enough to know what he was. I wonder if she was right. "She's a demon, Cole."

He cocks his head to the side and stares out into the empty hall before us. "Is that true?"

"I don't know."

"That frightens you," he says.

"Yes." I take a deep breath. Skyhold looms hollow and fragile, held up by sticks and nails and a leader that can't tell the difference between nightmares and sweet dreams.


	24. The Wardens in the Wood

 

Rain beats against the hood of my oiled cloak as Hawke and I make our way through the hills of Crestwood. We left the others with the Chargers in the village - don't want to attract too many eyes, after all. I'd asked Blackwall if he wanted to join us, partially because he's a Warden, and partially because I didn't want to be alone with Hawke. But he was reluctant, and I let him stay. Perhaps his history with the Wardens is more complicated than he's been willing to share. Or perhaps he simply didn't want to trudge through the countryside in the mud.

"Inquisitor," Hawke calls as we climb up slick paths. "So. Varric tells me I owe you an apology."

"That does not sound like an apology at all."

"Well, it's the beginning of one." She sighs, jogging a few steps so she can stand beside me. "Look. I'm not good at this."

I stop dead at the top of a hill, and a druffalo wanders past us, groaning its way towards the dry and warmth of a barn at the bottom of the hill. I don't trust myself to open my mouth. I don't trust myself not to attack back. So I wait, and she sighs, twirling her staff in that reckless, habitual way she has, a motion that would have been ironed out of her before her tenth birthday if she'd ever had proper instruction in a Circle.

"Okay. So. I'm sorry for all the things I said about your Commander. It's none of my business what parts the two of you do or don't smash together on your personal time." She smiles like she's made a joke, as if the idea of us 'smashing together our parts' is _hilarious._ I clench my jaw. I don't want to have this fight. Not with her.

"C'mon, Inquisitor. I'm trying."

"Are you?" The words crack off my tongue sharply, and I know I won't be able to stop more from coming. "So you feel guilty about tormenting the Commander of my troops? Because it seems to me like you're just trying to make nice for Varric's sake."

"Well, I didn't say anything that was untrue."

"And _there_ it is. I don't understand why you even bother poking at him. What is he to you, anyway?"

"Seriously? He's the Knight Captain of the Gallows. As long as we're talking about understanding, I understand why someone like Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, kidnapper and zealot, would recruit him. But you? You're a formerly Tranquil mage. I can't understand why you'd keep him around, let alone why you'd make doe eyes at him over the war table."

" _I_ don't understand how you can endlessly defend Anders without giving Cullen the same opportunities to redeem himself."

Her bright blue eyes sharpen in the rain, and her red lips tighten to a thin line. "That's completely different."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is! Anders has always fought for my freedom, and for the freedoms of people like me. He has always protected me. _Always_. Maybe I haven't always agreed with his methods, but at least he's never been actively fighting against mages."

"I am not _onl_ _y_ a mage, and you have no idea what Cullen has or hasn't done for me."

"And _you_ have no idea who he really is! That Knight-Captain you care about so much? He thought making even more mages Tranquil sounded like a _wonderful_ idea. Templars raped and tortured and killed mages under his nose. I care that you _know_ that."

I take a deep, steadying breath. Anger rolls in me as I stare at her, hips square and back straight, challenging me to contradict her. A million rebuttals itch at my tongue. _Anders killed people in Hightown, and those people were like you. Anders killed women. Anders killed daughters and sisters and Fereldens and Marchers. Were they not 'people like you?' Did he fight for their freedoms?_ But I know they're only attacks, only things to cut back at Hawke in turn. Because I don't want to poke my head in her love life. I don't want to examine every tiny happiness she can find. I want her to leave mine _alone_.

"Hawke," I begin carefully. "I've known Cullen since I was thirteen. I know he is a man of duty and honor. I know he has better reasons to fear mages than most. I know rebellion does not come naturally to him, and I know he's here anyway. That he left the Templars anyway.

"And I also know that he watched as his Knight-Commander pressed a lyrium brand into my forehead. I know that he served another Knight-Commander who allowed - even encouraged - the kind of abuses that I've felt on my own skin. And _that_ , my lady Hawke, is why we are _not_ smashing any of our parts together at all. Because I _know_ him. And as much as I wish I had _infinite_ time to unravel my complicated feelings about him and what all of that means for us, I have to kill demons and close rifts and be the Inquisitor. And if any of that changes, if we do anything more, it will be _none_ of your business."

"Look, I - "

"Just. Wait," I say, cutting her off. "Before you say anything else, I just want to ask that you please don't make life any more difficult for me or for him than it has to be. He is a man who works tirelessly for this Inquisition. One who has been an inspiring Commander for our troops. Whatever else he has done, he wants to defeat Corypheus as much as you or I. For that, he deserves your respect."

She stands in front of me, and for a moment while she looks at me, the rain is deafening in my ears. She opens her mouth twice before she can make a sound. "I don't know what to say."

"I'm sorry would be a good start."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

I nod, and she relaxes back into her customarily loose posture. I don't want to forget what she's forgotten - that we're not so different at all. Not when it comes to loving men that we might also hate. I even knew a different version of her Anders, one that was nothing more than a malcontented escape artist with an idiotic earring. But all of that history and common ground is big and complicated and fraught, so I let it wash away with all the rain. Because I have an Inquisition to run.

"So who are we going to see?" I ask, and Hawke grins into the storm.

"You'll see. I think you'll like them."

And so we both turn northwards, toward a cave in the hills where Wardens wait.

* * *

_Caja_

* * *

Our cave is cold. And damp. And mossy. There's a nug in the corner, but Alistair won't let me eat it.

My aging mabari, Paragon, snores near the cave entrance, and he drools from his graying mouth. Sometimes I wish I could have left him somewhere where life was nothing but sticks to fetch and scratches behind the ears. He's earned his retirement. But the stupid mutt won't eat when I'm not around, and maybe he's earned a warrior's death besides. He's a Warden as much as any of us as far as I'm concerned, and we all go to the Deep Roads in the end.

Carver Hawke lays on the ground in front of me, shirtless back pale in our torchlight. On his ribs, I've drawn a soaring hawk, wings stretching nearly from his hip to his shoulder blade. My needle draws blood as I work on its final feathers, rubbing ink into his skin as I go. He winces as I wipe away blood and black.

"Thought you'd be used to this by now, Birdie," I tease. "I've known dusters who squirmed less when I was tattooing their cocks."

He moans as I press my needle into fresh skin, and Alistair coughs as he pours over his maps. I used to think that eventually my golden Warden would stop blushing at my stories, exploits, and dirty lies told for color. But he hasn't. I look up at him from my seat on the ground, and he stares at what must be a very interesting mountain range in Nevarra, skin pink from his nose to the tips of his ears.

"Tattooed many cocks, Brosca?" Carver asks. I rub more ink into his skin, smirking as he grunts.

"Only four," I say, leaning toward his ear. "I'll let you guess whether or not Alistair is one of them."

Carver laughs, and Alistair goes from pink to scarlet, the kind of deep blush I love to trace to its edges when we're alone. Maybe we shouldn't be tattooing and teasing. Maybe we should all be gathered around that map that Alistair can't let go. But there's a song itching the back of my mind, and if I'm concentrating on skin and ink, I'm not concentrating on that. I'm not concentrating on that little voice constantly whistling that its time to die.

Being in a cave helps. Down here, I can still point straight to Orzammar without looking at a map or a compass. It's quieter than it used to be, much quieter, but the Stone sounds steady as a drumbeat in my bones all the same. And while the taint sings to me from the sickly dark, the Stone reminds me that I can find my way in the blackest tunnels. I could wish it was louder, like the Stone I heard when I was a half-grown brand, but I know I'm the one who's changed, and the rock and mountains are still strong as ever. The echo I feel is enough to remind me that it's all still here.

"So what did she give you, oh mighty hero?" Carver calls, grinning through the pain of needles and the Calling.

"I'll have you know that she's given me several tattoos, and none of them are on my...parts. _And_ I sat through them all very well, even the one - "

Paragon growls low, standing his ground steady as a dog half his age.

For half a second we each look to the others, gauging reactions. Within a moment, I've abandoned my ink for daggers that are never far away, and both Alistair and Carver have swords in hand. I whistle softly to Paragon, and he darts to my side as I sink into the shadows.

_Maybe it's just bandits, not our brothers and sisters come to take us west._ Except it could be refugees, too, looking for shelter anywhere they can get it. I grit my teeth at the thought. Refugees are trouble for us. We can't _harm_ them, obviously, but the last thing we need right now are frightened tongues wagging to villagers and merchants and whoever else they find on road about the heroes they found in a cave.

Footsteps pad softly against stone, too light for anyone wearing heavy plate. I hold my hand in a fist, and Paragon lies down at my feet. He's still ready, every muscle in his still-strong body tense as bowstrings.

An elf steps into our torchlight.

She's short for an elf, and she's not dressed like a refugee, bandit, _or_ Warden. A heavy cloak, slick from the rain, rests on her narrow shoulders, and she carries a staff at her back. A huge black dog, a mabari like Paragon, follows her like a shadow. As the elf turns, I see she wears a sunburst brand. _Tranquil_. When was the last time I'd seen one of the Tranquil? Years, probably. Still, I remember enough to know that she's probably not alone.

I step forward out of the darkness, dagger in hand. Alistair and Carver do the same, barely a beat behind. The Tranquil elf stops dead, and for just a moment her eyes flit between us, drenched in that skin-crawling, dead expression the Tranquil always wear.

And then, she _smiles_.

"It's just us!" My eyes snap back to the mouth of the cave, where Jessa Hawke jogs towards us. "Maker's breath, put your weapons down. I've brought the Inquisitor."

I look to Alistair, and he looks even more disturbed than I feel. In another life, he used to see a lot of the Tranquil. Far more than I ever saw while beating up lyrium smugglers in Dust Town. _Is this even fucking possible?_ I want to ask. Or maybe just, _How the hell are we this out of touch?_

I put my daggers away, and both Alistair and Carver follow suit.

"Maker's breath. Carver, put your eyes back in your head," Hawke says. "And while you're at it, find a damn shirt."

He rests his hands on his hips, shirtless and defiant.

The elf - the _Inquisitor_ \- steps closer to us, torchlight playing over her smooth face. "I am Aderyn Surana."

"Caja Brosca," I answer. I hold out my hand, and she shakes it firmly, her grip stronger than I might have guessed. She looks me in the eye, and I know she recognizes the name. For ten years, my name has meant something to people. For ten years, they've been looking at me like that. And why shouldn't they? Names like that are good for people. Heroes are important. Orzammar, for all its faults, always knew that. And if I'm disappointing after you get to know me...well. Not many people get to know me that well. "This is Alistair Theirin and Carver Hawke." Her eyes flit over our faces again.

"I had no idea I would be meeting such famous Wardens."

"Of course not," Carver says. "Jessa always did like to make a scene." He briefly wears the petulant expression he sometimes adopts around his more famous sister. _Come back, Birdie,_ I will, and he stands taller again like he can hear me.

"Is it just the two of you? Out here alone?" I ask before Hawke can start needling her brother.

"We left more of the Inquisition back in Crestwood," the Inquisitor says. "They're helping to defend the village against the undead."

"They made it to the village?" My gut turns. I'm supposed to be all about stopping Blights. And Blights are bad. Ancestors, nobody knows that better than I do. But especially in all the years since, I promised myself I wouldn't just be the cowardly brand that did what she had to in order to survive. If people were going to call me a hero, I was going to _be_ one. And I'm standing in this cave, safe and dry, while the undead invade a village nearby.

"Recently," Hawke says. "The Inquisition has this one, Caja."

"Right." My brand itches, and the Calling swells. _You've always been dark like us,_ it seems to whisper. _Always been tainted._ Fuck, but it's getting harder to ignore. "I guess you wanna know what the Wardens are up to."

"Whatever you can tell me would be helpful."

"Then I guess it's time to spill some secrets." I put my hand on Paragon's head and give him a little scratch behind the ears, more for me than him. "You know how the Hawkes killed Corypheus, but he's not dead? Well. Archdemons do the same thing."

That first secret comes out easier than I expect it to. And when I tell her about the Calling in my head, that comes easy, too.

The blood magic, though - that part sticks in my throat. _Hello, Inquisitor. Yes, we'll help you. Oh, the rest of our Order? They've gone crazier than a lyrium addled smith. Yeah, all that singing and death in your skull makes you panic._ Alistair and Carver help me through it, and I am grateful for my brothers. Without them, I think I might have answered the Calling, slunk my way to the Deep Roads. I'm not proud of that. _Hero of Ferelden_ , the taint murmurs. When I finish the tale, I spit, like it might get the taste of Darkspawn off my tongue.

"So every Warden in Southern Thedas thinks they're dying?" the Inquisitor says.

"Pretty much."

"Including you three?"

"Well. We've all seen what a Darkspawn horde looks like. Until one of those shows up, we're pretty sure this isn't a Blight, and we're pretty sure killing Corypheus will end this Calling. So. No. We don't think we're dying. Takes a lot to kill us."

"But your Order - they're preparing some kind of direct assault on the Old Gods?"

"That's the basics."

That little elf with her serene faces nods, and her eyes flicker to the maps on our table. "I would welcome your help in stopping them, but I have a feeling it will come to fighting. If you don't wish - "

"We're in," Carver says immediately. "We're Wardens. We swore to protect. We swore to ignore politics and alliances and fight Darkspawn above all else. As far as we're concerned, Corypheus is nothing but a really nasty Darkspawn, and fighting him should come first."

"That's my brother," Hawke says, and pride lights up her face. Carver smiles at her, and I'm reminded that a part of him is just a boy who wants his big sister to know how much he's grown.

"Well. How would like to help close an underwater hole in the veil before we go?"

A smile tugs at my lips. "Wouldn't miss it."

* * *

As we leave the cave, Paragon runs ahead with the other mabari, the two of them stretching their legs into loping strides. The Hawkes fall into step behind the Inquisitor, and Alistair touches my arm.

"Caja - " he says, and my heart breaks just a little at the sound of his voice. How long has it been since we really talked? Since we were honest about the sickly song in our heads? How long since we even slept side by side? I like Carver, but being stuck in a cave with him has had disadvantages.

"Alistair, I'm fine if that's your question."

"No, actually. Though I'm glad to hear it." He twines his fingers through mine, and I squeeze tight. I'm always amazed at how smooth his hands are, and how scarred mine are by comparison. I used to do it on purpose, cut into my skin, tracing the lines of my chain-pattern tattoos from my knuckles to my elbows. I did it make me feel ugly, to _loo_ _k_ ugly, because I saw what being beautiful did for my sister. It's the same reason I have a triangle tattooed on my eye, why I never wore dresses, why I cut my hair short. I wanted to be master of my own skin, not a plaything, and I thought I could manage it only if I cut out any beauty I might have been born with. But Alistair traces my scars like they're wondrous, and from him, that's just fine by me.

"What is it, then?"

"Do you remember her?" he asks.

"The Inquisitor? From where?"

"Ferelden's Circle. When it fell."

"No. Not even a little." I study his face, and his eyes cling to her back, to the delicate way she moves through the rain. "Why? Do you?"

"Yes. She was Tranquil by then. We found in the library, just sorting books like there weren't corpses all over the floor."

"Fuck."

"I know. That's not the point, though. I'd met her before, while recruiting with the Wardens. She was the First Enchanter's apprentice, and he told Duncan to consider her. I liked her, but Duncan thought she was too soft. Talented mage, he said, but not right for a warrior's life."

"Do you think he was wrong?"

"No. I mean, I'm sure she's making an excellent prophet or whatever. Lots of borderline unsettling smiles for the faithful, plenty of symbolism, good moral fiber. _Very_ green hand. All important traits." He grins as rain flattens his perpetually unruly hair, and I lift a brow at him.

"What's your point, salroka?"

"I just...I suppose I just had a thought. If Duncan had recruited her instead of you, you wouldn't be here. And I'm so grateful for you, my dear. I don't think I say that enough."

For a moment, I just stare at him. I'm still sometimes surprised that he can look at me like he does now, like he did the first time he told me I had beautiful eyes. Or like he said it the hundredth time, when I finally believed him.

"I love you, pretty giant," I whisper.

"I love you, too."

I loop my arm around his waist, and he rests his across my shoulders as we turn toward the next fight. It feels like old times. Maybe I shouldn't like that, considering how terrible our old times were, but I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I've got a little more free time than I've had in awhile, so expect to see me posting! Hope you're all doing well, and thank you so much to everyone who's read this far, whether you've been reading for a long time or you've just found me recently. I feel so lucky to have this story as a way to share my words in a much more immediate way than I'm used to. So thank you :) I'm grateful for you, dear readers, and I don't think I say that enough.


	25. In the Dark

Frost flies from my staff, making chilly contact with the the rage demon before me. I leap out of the way as it lunges, catching its amorphous head with my staff blade. From behind, Cole sinks daggers into its back, and the fiery thing sinks back to the ground, melting away as if it had never been.

My ears prick at the song of the rift overhead. _Not yet._

The Wardens fight with brutal efficiency, their blades cutting through demons with precise motions, no effort spared for flair. And yet, a wraith floats behind Caja, quiet and near invisible in the sickly light of the rift. I throw a barrier over her as it nears, and Cassandra holds up her shield beside me to catch a stray attack from a shade at my back.

"I'll cover you for the rift!" she calls. It calls to my eyes, makes me want to look at nothing else, but it's not ready, not right. There are too many demons slipping through the edges of this rift, sliding like sludge into the solid world. But I can't slow them, and I can't stop them until the rift sings differently, until it echoes sharp overtones with the scream of the anchor.

I grit my teeth and send a fireball racing toward Despair. It's been days of rain and mud and the undead. Sunshine feels half a myth, covered by layers of rock and dirt and sticky sludge, and then yet still obscured by endless rain clouds. A walking corpse tore into my shoulder yesterday, and while Solas and elfroot has helped, bruises protest the whirl of my staff.

I steady my breath.

As a shade, yet another shade, flutters before me, the Veil _shifts_ in the room. I step behind Cassandra, and she nods as I lift my hand to the rift. The pain of it is familiar now, and perhaps less sweet than it once was. I wait for Solas' magic to aid me, but it doesn't come. He must be fighting his own battle.

I am alone.

The rift thunders as it finally closes, and darkness envelops us all.

A hand falls on my shoulders, and the warmth of skin feels so foreign compared to the cold stone beneath my knees. I'm not sure when I fell to my knees.

"Lethallan," Solas murmurs. "Ir abelas, da'len." He whispers more elven as I sit, clinging to my wrist in the dark. I can't understand any of it. Maybe if my mind were clearer, I could parse little slivers of meaning from all the soft sounds of our forgotten tongue.

Slowly, I open my eyes. Light from Vivienne and Dorian's staffs light the cavern, casting long shadows behind each of my companions. Solas searches my face, following the flutter of my eyes as I make an effort to focus my vision.

"Is everyone all right?" I ask.

"Yes, da'len. What about you?"

"I am embarrassed." I stretch my fingers, and the mark crackles on my skin, but I make an effort to smile.

"Dirthara-ma," he curses. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, if I cannot be ridiculous, I suppose I am just fine."

He tilts his head as his expression softens. "Can you stand?"

I nod and rise to shaky feet. I can feel new eyes on me - the others have seen the anchor pain me, but Hawke and the Wardens stare at me in the dim light.

"Does this happen often?" Hawke asks.

"Crawling through dwarven ruins for days until we find a rift full of demons bent on killing us?" Varric says. "All the time." He winks at me, leading Hawke toward the mouth of the cavern. "Come on, Junior. Heroes. Let's get out of this damn cave."

Slowly, Carver and the others trickle away, guided only by the light from the mage's staffs. Caja lingers, the Hero of Ferelden's silver eyes shining in the dark. The geometric tattoos that paint her face blend with shadows, until she looks cavernous, hardly separate from the stone at all.

"Come on," she calls, eyes still trained on me. "I know the way."

"Whaddya _mean_ , you know the way?" Sera calls. "We all came here, same way as you."

"She's a dwarf," Blackwall says. "They know...cave things."

"It's called Stone sense," Caja says, smirking at Blackwall. A blush creeps above his beard, and Dorian smirks as they pass him. "All dwarves are born with it. It mostly means I can find my way pretty well underground."

"Varric, do _you_ have Stoney smell or whatever?"

"No, Buttercup. They only hand that out to proper Orzammar dwarves."

"I know some guards who would _very_ much like to dispute the 'proper' part."

"Aren't you a Paragon now? That's the most properly Orzammar thing that I can think of."

"What's a Paragon? Isn't that your dog?"

A smile tugs at my lips as they walk away. Paragon the Mabari barks happily from his mistress' side, and my Ghilan wags her tail, settling her great head against my leg. I scratch her ear with my still-tingling hand, and she groans with appreciation.

"I think I like her," I say to Solas, but his eyes search my face intensely, as if the source of my pain would leap from my eyes or nose or mouth.

"This rift was hard on you."

I sigh, and the two of us walk with Ghilan behind the others, bringing up the rear of our company. "Closing rifts hurts. Bigger rifts hurt more. We've known this for a long time."

"You aren't sleeping, da'len."

"Solas, I am not a child."

" _Aderyn_." He grabs my arm, fingers firm on my elbow. I keep my eyes trained forward and light the tip of my staff, as if banishing shadows could prevent talk of the Fade. "If you tell me what's wrong, I can help you."

"Nothing is wrong. There is simply much to do. I've had little time for sleep."

"While lying awake in your bedroll? You can fool the others, but I have not seen you in the Fade."

"Sometimes I just need time to think. Awake. Alone." _Without the specter of Sloth heavy on my skin._

"There's something troubling you. I can see it."

Of course there is. And perhaps Solas is exactly the sort of knowledgeable individual I should consult. Except what had Solas called Myrrha? A spirit of Peace or Patience, that's what, but I can't afford to think of her as anything but a liability. _Inquisitor_. It's a word that means there are thousands of people counting on me to be their leader, to defeat their enemies and keep them safe. And that starts with avoiding becoming an abomination at all costs. Perhaps this is something the Circle got right, for I cannot be vulnerable. I cannot be the rickety thing I was before the Breach. I have to be _real_.

"Please, lethallin. I would prefer not to speak of it, and I am fully capable of serving the Inquisition as of now. If that changes, I will alert you." For a moment, I think he'll never let go of my arm, that his hands will stay there, firm and warm over my soft leathers. But I turn to him, and he sighs, beaten, letting his hand fall away.

"I am not worried for the Inquisitor. I am worried for _you_."

I let my staff darken so I won't have to look him in the eye again before moving to catch up with the others. My face wants nothing more than to settle into comfortable Tranquility, but the others are happy, the triumphant heroes of Crestwood Village. So I laugh when Alistair cracks a joke, and I smile when Vivienne loops her arm through mine.

I am Aderyn Surana, and I am just fine.

* * *

We return to Skyhold as the evening darkens. My muscles complain after days of riding, and my horse - the most docile mare the Inquisition has to offer - huffs with relief as I finally dismount in the courtyard.

Beside me, Cassandra stiffens as Josephine strides across the courtyard.

"And to work," I say to Cassandra. She sighs, and we both hand our reins to stablehands.

"This work had better involve food," she grumbles.

"You didn't like Warden Alistair's Ferelden lamb stew last night?" I tease.

"I didn't even taste it. _Smelling_ it was quite enough."

I chuckle, and Caja snorts beside me. "We ate better in Dust Town. And we used eat moss," she says.

"You ate _moss_?" Sera calls.

"Don't compare the traditional dishes of my homeland to moss, dear. It hurts my feelings."

"I think just looking at it caused irreparable damage to my digestion," Dorian quips.

"It does have a certain...texture I don't normally associate with lamb."

Caja and Alistair swing their heads in unison, and grins split their faces as Leliana appears from inside the barn. She strides forward, her mouth turned up beneath her hood.

"You just missed it, salroka. We were in a camp in the woods with a whole bunch of idiots. There was even a Qunari. It was like old times." She jogs forward and pulls my aloof spymaster into a tight hug.

"What a thing to miss!" She laughs, a bright thing, like a bell. When she pulls away, she beams at Alistair. "And look at you, wonderful boy."

"Boy? Do I still look that young?" he says. "I'll have you know I have gray hairs and everything these days. I'm practically ancient." She waves his arms away from his hair as he picks through for proof, and they embrace too, old friends drinking simple moments. I glance at Hawke, Varric, and Carver, the three of them joking softly with the same familiarity.

"Inquisitor," Josephine says, glancing at Leliana as she arrives before us. "I hear we have distinguished guests in Skyhold."

They all assemble, and introductions and welcomes are passed like whiskey around a campfire. Josephine insists on providing the grand tour, and I am shocked by my own castle. It's been hardly more than a fortnight since I left a ruin behind, but Skyhold feels alive now. The hall is cleared out, the gardens are being tamed, there are rooms for all to sleep in. We even have a tavern, now. _The Herald's Rest_. I would have picked a different name.

Even still, this moment feels precious and fragile, all the more because I know how fleeting it will be. Soon we'll be back in the field staring death and destruction and demons in the face once more. Soon we'll have to remember that the world is crumbling. But Skyhold blazes in the night, bright and growing, and it makes me believe the world might be rebuilt.

* * *

Skyhold has kitchens, now. Real, working kitchens, the kind built to produce feasts. The Iron Bull insisted that we take our meal in the Herald's Rest instead of the main hall. So we can dance, he said. So we'd avoid nobles, he said. So we could just be _us_.

He's drunk, now, and it seems as though half the people I've ever met are drunk, too. The others have abandoned our table in the back for dancing or wild storytelling. Caja and Alistair stand atop a table across the room, pantomiming a drama about an expedition to the Deep Roads, while Carver provides narration. Leliana laughs with them, and I didn't think she was capable of laughing like that. Josephine leans on Leliana's arm, Sera and Blackwall heckle the performers, and the Iron Bull elbows Krem at every punchline. Elsewhere, Vivienne and Solas poke fun at some quirk of Dorian's spellcasting. Varric and Hawke occasionally roar with laughter at whatever private stories they're trading in. Everyone looks...happy. Safe.

I sit in the corner and pick at the remnants of the crusty bread that kept appearing on the table. I'm overfull of carrot soup and rich roasts, but still I snag a stray potato from the serving tray in front of me. A fleeting twinge of regret tugs at my chest that Cullen isn't here, because I'd like to see him smile, too. But he's in the valley with the soldiers, and he won't be back until tomorrow morning.

Cassandra puts a cup of wine into my hand as she returns to the seat beside me from the bar. She smiles, cheeks rosier than usual, lifting her own cup to her lips.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Seeker?" This is my third cup of wine, which is two more than I usually allow myself.

"I'm trying to protect you from whatever swill the Iron Bull has been doling out. It smells worse than Warden Alistair's stew."

"Well, I was in no danger of drinking that. I know my limits, and nobody needs to see their Inquisitor puking all over her new tavern." I pull the wine to my lips all the same.

"Mother Giselle would be shocked."

"They'd be gossiping all the way in Val Royeaux." I pick at the base of my cup, just watching the revelry for a moment, letting the laughter and talk fill my skin with tingling sound. "Do you ever think about what would have happened if you'd found Hawke or Caja before the Conclave?"

"Truthfully? Yes."

"And?"

"Well. Hawke is impossible to keep on task when she'd rather be cracking jokes. It would be like putting Varric in charge, only worse."

"And the Warden-Commander?"

"She seems a good woman."

"You could depose me. I'd step down without a fuss," I say, and Cassandra rolls her eyes.

"I would not trade you for her. Not for anything."

"No? Why ever not? I think I'd pick her over me."

"That is because you are modest."

"Modesty is maybe a poor trait in a warrior prophetess."

"Perhaps we can disagree on that point." Her eyes wander the room, and a smile clings to her lips. "In all honesty, I do not think Caja Brosca is a woman who prays."

"Cassandra, _I'm_ not a woman who prays."

"That is a lie! I have _seen_ you praying. Perhaps not the same way that I pray, or Leliana does, or Cullen or Mother Giselle. But I have seen you share your faith with the people you meet, and I have seen you act with the Maker's grace. That, my friend, is something we cannot do without."

I let my face fall to something soft and Tranquil, because I don't know what to say. Believing ever so briefly in the Maker is what helped me limp to the Breach, and leaving that belief in Haven was what carried me out of the snow. But if my new, healed life wasn't some pre-ordained, finite road from the Breach to the Breach, if it wasn't ordained by a Maker that wanted me to succeed, how do I trust that every hardship before me is surmountable? How can I trust that I am enough? I can't, not even in sleep. _Especially_ not in sleep.

"Are you all right?" Cassandra asks.

"I'm having trouble finding faith and grace just now."

"Do you know what might help?"

"Hm?"

"Sleep."

I chuckle, finishing the wine in front of me. _You need rest, Little Sparrow._ "Yes. Well. There are just so many exciting parties to attend in taverns, you see."

"And who can blame you? I think I am finished with this one, however." She gets up and puts her hand on my shoulder, fingers relaxed and warm over the travel leathers I still wear. "I will be praying in the gardens tomorrow morning. You are free to join me, my friend."

My chest tightens at the offer, but I nod. "Thank you, Cassandra."

"Maker be with you this night, Aderyn Surana."

* * *

Hours later, Skyhold is quiet.

I left the tavern on Cassandra's heels, and the warmth of wine is all but gone. All that remains is a heaviness in my limbs and the call of my bed. I changed into a wool tunic and a simple skirt, the most comfortable clothing I could find in a wardrobe full of unfamiliar finery.

I tiptoe through Josephine's office. I've left dreaming to Ghilan, whose long legs stretch across my absurdly large bed. I know the war room will have a pile of reports and letters for me to sort through, orders for me to sift and sign.

I need something to _do_.

The door to the war room gives easily under my push, yet another thing oiled and repaired since I was here last. Soft torchlight beyond betrays another presence, a silhouette clad in wool and the remnants of half-discarded armor.

"Ad - a - Inquisitor." Cullen looks up from all his pieces on the map, and shadows pool in his features. His armor is mostly piled up beside him, and his shirtsleeves are pushed to his elbow to reveal muscled forearms. "I - I didn't expect you to be awake. I would have come to see you if I - I'd known."

"Josephine said you were in the valley with the troops," I say. My feet refuse to move from the doorway.

"I was. I, um - I returned not long ago."

"Oh." My eyes dart to the pile of documents that no doubt belong to me, and my feet itch to grab them and flee back upstairs where Cullen can't see me stand waking in the night.

"You're awake," he offers, and I'm not sure if he's concerned or simply making conversation.

"Yes." My eyes flicker to his, and I find that I'm hungry to remember every nuance of every fleck of color in his golden eyes after weeks away. "So are you."

"Right. I was just - I had thought to get a little work taken care of. I have a dozen minor lords reporting rifts on their lands, and a dozen more complaining of demons disturbing their flower beds. It sounds as though Crestwood will need men to rebuild after the undead you stopped. And there are still mages that need escorts from the Hinterlands. What Templars we have are spread thin as it is, and suddenly it feels as though half of our army is made of boys and girls who far overestimate their skill and experience with swordplay. I need to - "

The anchor flashes ever so briefly on my palm, spraying green light through the room, and sending a sharp spike of pain from my palm to my shoulder. Cullen stops in the middle of his rambling. The pain in his eyes is a reflection of mine, magnified in the night.

"It is nothing," I whisper. "I would prefer if you did not trouble yourself."

"Addie." He's at my side as if there was never a war table between us at all. His warm hands pick up my mine, and he folds out my fingers ever so gently, until the anchor shines between us. It doesn't matter that our last conversation was about the Gallows. In the dark, in this moment, we are just him and me. I close my eyes and steady my breathing, and the simple divinity of holding his hand plays a sweet harmony with the sound of my name on his lips.

"It's keeping you awake."

"No. I think it's complaining that I'm _not_ sleeping, actually." I sigh, pulling my hand from his. "That wasn't reassuring, was it?"

"You could be honest instead. I'd - I'd like that."

Being honest with Cullen is a terrible idea, of course. _Remember how I've been telling you to trust mages? Well, you can't even trust me, because I've been cavorting with a demon every night since I woke up in Haven. But still. Please. Trust_ other _mages._

And yet, what if Myrrha gets in? What if I grow so tired that I don't want to wake up in the morning? I've been that tired. Before, in Haven, when I was still a woman who prayed. All I wanted was _rest_. It could happen again. I could go to gardens tomorrow with Cassandra, I could pray for rest, and Myrrha could give it to me. Someone has to be ready. Just in case, they have to be ready.

I clear my throat and point at a pile of paper tucked away in the corner of the room. "Josephine suggested that there might be a few letters waiting for me."

"I doubt she suggested you come down here in the middle of the night to read them."

"Well, if you don't tell the First Enchanter that I was up past curfew, I won't tell the Knight-Commander that you were wandering the library after your patrol."

He laughs, low and quiet, like he used to during those illicit nights in the tower's library when the two of us were pretending not to seek each other out. Not that anything _untoward_ ever happened. Mostly, he'd search the stacks for the most ridiculous books he could find and leave them on the table like gifts. _Summoning Goats for Temporary Farming. A Brief History of Ferelden Puppetry. The Magical Enhancement of Psychedelic Plants._ And I in turn would leave little spelled wisps floating through the library, shaped like goats or puppets or mushrooms. It was a simpler time, though perhaps not as simple as my memory paints it.

Tonight, he leads me to my pile of letters, and the two of us settle into an easy silence. His shoulders hunch over the war table, taking seemingly endless notes about troop movements and numbers and their level of training. I settle onto a little seat under a window, the stained glass dark and rich in the night.

The letters vary. Some are merely introductions from wealthy brown nosers. Others are thanks from farmers or townspeople who live near closed rifts. Some are inquiries about missing family members, and those swim in my sleepy vision. _Dear Inquisitor, Did you see an elven lass named Nehn in Crestwood? Dear Inquisitor, Have you seen my brother, Bevin? He was last seen in Redcliffe Village. Dear Inquisitor, Maybe you met my wife in Haven. Her name is Raina, and she has yellow hair and green eyes you wouldn't forget. Dear Inquisitor. Dear Inquisitor. Dear Inquisitor…_

I open my eyes in a familiar room, where tables of tea stretch to the foggy horizon, where books fill stacks and familiar, comfortable things press around me like heavy blankets. I've been avoiding this place, I know. I've been avoiding it, and I don't know why.

"Hello."

Myrrha watches me from far away, but I can see everything about her clearly, so clearly that she might be inches from my face. Red curls in distinct spirals, every burst of blue in her eyes, the delicate bow of her mouth. I fight the urge to go to her, to sing sweet songs from a half-remembered alienage, the kind my mother used to sing for me. I had a mother, once.

"I can't be here," I say.

"Then why do you keep coming back?" She tilts her head, as if she's never called me back here through the Fade. She knows what I don't want to admit. That I _want_ to be here.

Maker take me to his side, but I _want_.

* * *

I pull air sharply into my lungs, fingers seeking something to hold, something real, solid, unchanging. I find stone beneath me and fur around. The smell of fire smoke clings to my nose, second hand scents tickling at my memory.

I roll my neck, trying to work out the kinks of awkward sleep. Soft torchlight illuminates the war room as my eyes open reluctantly, dry from too-brief rests.

Cullen stands at the other end of the room, and his eyes find mine in the dark. _It's still dark._

"How long was I asleep?" I ask. As I shift on my perch beneath the window, I realize the fur I have in my fists are Cullen's, the one he wears draped over his armor. I will my fingers to loosen their grip.

"Not long."

"Right." I let out a shaky breath and reach for another letter. _Dear Inquisitor…_

"Addie," Cullen says. "The letters will be here in the morning. You can go to bed."

_You could be honest instead._ But being honest with Cullen is a terrible idea. I pick up another letter. _Dear Inquisitor…_ Cullen pulls it from my hand, putting it back on the top of the pile.

"If I sleep, I will dream. I prefer not to dream," I whisper. His brow creases over sleepless eyes, and his fingertips brush the edge of my brand.

"You don't mean that," he murmurs, and a bitter laugh falls from my lungs, easy as breathing. He holds me close anyway, pulling me from the window and to my feet. I slip easily into his arms, and he tucks my head under his chin. It happens too easily, like a lock and key, simple as a game an apprentice and a Templar played in the library after dark. "You can tell me what's bothering you."

_You could be honest._

I'm not sure what honesty means anymore. I prefer not to be Tranquil. But I also prefer not to see Myrrha, even though I _want_ to. That wanting is illogical, a dangerous thought from a silly girl. I prefer to be awake, I prefer to be working, I prefer to be helpful. I _want_ to stay in Cullen's arms forever. That's honest. I want to tell him truths that I know would make him recoil. That's honest, too.

I wrap my arms tight around his waist. I don't want to go back to being _mage_ and _Templar_ , _danger_ and _jailor_. But maybe there was something necessary about that after all. Maybe I needed the comfort of knowing that if I gave in, I'd be stopped. Maybe knowing that will help me _sleep_.

"Cullen," I whisper. I pull away, giving us space to fill old shoes. "If I were to become possessed, would you...?"

I expect him to nod solemnly. I've asked him this question before, more or less. After my Harrowing, while we were awkwardly stuttering at each other in the wake of success, I needed to know the truth then, too. It put space between us, and that felt safe. _I serve the Chantry and the Maker, and I will do as I am commanded._ I knew that was honest. I knew it would stop me from getting too close.

But tonight, in the war room that is nothing like the Tower library, the war room that is cold and new and dangerous, revulsion slides over his features.

"How could you ask me something like that?" He steps farther away, head shaking slowly as his hands begin to quiver.

"Cullen - "

" _Please,_ don't say it again." His boots scrape against stone floor, and his shoulders hunch where he usually stands tall.

"You are angry."

"Of course I'm angry." He looks to the ceiling, as if he might see right to the sky and the heavens, or maybe just so he won't have to look at me. "Maker's breath, Addie, you didn't want me to watch any of the other mages, no matter how limited the oversight. And now you want me to what? Volunteer to be your personal executioner? No. No, I won't listen to this."

"I need to sleep, Cullen. I need to know that if a demon wakes in my skin, that you'll take care of it. You are a Templar. You know - "

"No." His eyes blaze as they find mine. "No, I am not a Templar anymore. I am not bound by their rules; I am not bound to the Chantry, I am my own man, and I will not promise to end your life."

"We have to be practical."

"I am being practical!" He curses fluently, all husky words half obscured by his breathing. "You're the Inquisitor. You're the only one who can close rifts. And you want me to say what, exactly? Rest easy, mage, for if you should fall to evil, I will end you before you can hurt anyone?"

I back away until my back hits the heavy wooden door, carvings biting into my shoulder blades. "Something like that," I murmur.

"You have asked me over and over to trust mages. To expect the best of people, and allow them to rise to the occasion."

"Cullen."

"Don't, Addie. Don't you dare tell me that you alone are personally unworthy of such a courtesy. I know better." He walks toward me, and I will myself to sink through the wood of the door, so that I don't have to tell him that I'm too tired to fight. That I thought I was chosen, but I was wrong. That against all odds, faith in the Maker was what allowed me to live with my demon. He stops in front of me, when the space between us is skinny and tenuous.

"What if I can't do it?"

"You _can_. I have faith in you." His breath brushes the edge of my lips. My heart pounds at his closeness, at the warmth of his skin near mine and the faint glow of torchlight in his golden eyes. Maybe this is enough. Maybe his faith in me is enough reason to keep waking up. I'm too tired to think, and yet I still remember the taste of his mouth. My scars itch on my back as his hand catches tears I don't remember shedding. _And yet_.

"Why?" I ask.

And then, he says what I have always wanted him to say. "Because you, Aderyn Surana, are extraordinary."

That should be enough. I want to lean forward and let my lips meet his, let my racing heart pound against his chest. And yet, my mouth crawls with the memory of invading tongues. I want to slip my hands under his shirt like I did in Haven, and let him explore my skin in turn. _And yet._

I spin away and push open the door, so the hallway to Josephine's stretches in front of me. My eyes dart to Cullen and away again, just long enough to see the confusion on his face.

"I'm sorry." I take a deep breath and ball my hands into fists to keep from reaching for the edge of my scars. "I mean - thank you. I am...I will see you in the morning."

My footfalls echo through my sleeping fortress as I return to my room.


	26. Now You Are Free

The hall that leads to my quarters are still filled with wooden scaffolds, the stone walls and vaulted ceilings held up by sticks and wishes. My heart races, and my lips buzz with the remnants of abandoned closeness. _You are extraordinary._

It's not fair to Cullen that I'm here. Any other Tranquil at the Conclave could have interrupted at precisely the same time. And someone else would have been less complicated, especially for him. He deserves better.

Maker, I hate that such a thought might cross my mind.

Ghilan waits for me in bed, her muscular silhouette peaceful in slumber. Vivienne would die of shock if she saw my dog all over my sheets, but she feels like home, like a connection to a kingdom that might not claim me as its own. For I am Ferelden, born in Denerim, and I love this hound.

I stroke the top of her head, and she shifts, stretching sleepily toward my touch. My aching muscles, still tight from the road and from battle, sing with gratitude as I slip beneath my blankets beside her. Someone else - a servant, probably, for I think I might have servants now - lit a fire in the hearth, and the warmth of it glows against my toes.

 _You are extraordinary,_ he said. But I am small and tired, and I don't feel extraordinary at all. Exhaustion pulls me to sleep, and I can almost feel my fire haired demon surrounded by books and tea and soft things before she appears. But my heart pounds and I grit my teeth, because I don't want to see her at all. I don't want her voice to chase me through the Fade. I don't want to want her. I don't want to _need_ her.

 _Let it be elsewhere,_ I will. I just want to be anywhere else. I just want to see anyone else.

* * *

 _Skyhold_.

I open my eyes in Skyhold.

The edges of my quarters shimmer with golds and greens, and elven vine patterns flicker on woodwork that no longer exists. The Fade soaks my muscles with a peaceful glow, and the knots and aches of the road and battle float away from my skin. I stretch my arms, and my clothing flickers from travel leathers to a simple wool to silk robes and back, all wrong and constricting on my skin.

I half expect Myrrha's voice in my head, but I clench my jaw and shut my eyes, and say _no._

"Lethallan."

Breath catches in my throat, and I spin to find Solas standing behind me, sharper and more real than I've ever seen him. Every angle of him stands out against the Fade, and every shade of gray in his eyes is bright and apparent.

"Welcome to Skyhold, as I have known it." He smiles, and the stained glass windows around us sparkle with intensified light. Candelabras appear around us, carved light halla antlers, and the furnishings go from dusty and ancient to something gleaming and fine. My eyes dart around the room, trying to drink it all in before it inevitably melts away.

"It was elven," I say.

"No. The keep itself is Ferelden. But the place is old, and the Fade remembers the Elvhen and the human parts."

"Like me," I whisper. I am a Ferelden elf, two sided, and I walk the Fade on the strength of my own two feet. He nods.

"Once it was called Tarasyl'an Te'las."

"The place where the sky was kept."

"More or less." He smiles and reaches out a hand. I take it, his grip surprising and strong in mine. "Come. I will show you the gardens."

The two of us flit through the halls, grand rooms and decor flickering as we go. We linger in the throne room, and I reach out a hand to touch a golden tapestry on the wall. A wolf lurks on the panel, and I half expect my fingers to wake him from the wall.

"Come, lethallan. This way." Solas leads me through the side door. The gardens drip with greens and golds and the chill bite of autumn. I spread my sparrow wings and fly up and up, so I can see where the mountains turn to mist, where the sky is kept in by the peaks that protect this place.

"It's beautiful," I breath, floating back to Solas, who waits for me on the ground.

"Yes," he says. "Yes it is."

We stand in front of a reflection pool, the wolf and the sparrow, two elves framed by flowers and stone. My clothing flickers again, robes from the Tower and finery from Skyhold and scratchy, borrowed armor from the dungeons of Haven. My hair grows long one moment and shorter the next, ties itself in braids and flies loose to the wind. I wince and turn away, but Solas catches my chin to lift my eyes away from the ground.

"Lethallan," he says. "You are not comfortable."

"I prefer that you not trouble yourself with my comfort."

"Hush, da'len." He glances upward for a moment, toward a statue of an elf covered in golden vines. "Do you know what the ancient elves used to wear?"

"No."

He spreads his arms, and suddenly his traveling clothes turn to golden armor with seams I can't quite puzzle out, with a pelt over his shoulder. He looks...taller, maybe. Prouder, maybe. I did not imagine the wolf named Pride required any aid in that area.

"For you...you fight, but you're not a warrior. You are a thinker, a Dreamer. You should wear something for peace." He puts a hand on my shoulder, and robes appear, spun in silver and dark blue, falling wide on my shoulders and skimming curves to split skirts that shift to reveal soft leggings. My bare toes grip cool stones, ankles wrapped in silk.

I catch my reflection in the pond, and scars wrap around my shoulders, one stubbornly curling up my neck. I shiver, and a scarf appears, navy to match my new clothes, and my hair gathers itself in a high bun.

Solas shakes his head and unwinds the scarf, loop by loop. My chest tightens as scars reappear. I don't show those to people. I don't let them _see_.

"Solas, please."

"Shh." He removes the last of the scarf and lifts it to the sky, where it floats away into dust. "You forget that I have been your healer. I have seen your scars, lethallan."

"I would prefer..." Except I do not know what I would prefer, and his fingers trace over the ugly remnants of whippings I could not have deserved. And with every movement, they fade away to nothing, every touch lets the evaporate as surely as my dreamed-up scarf. His fingers run through my hair and it grows into a long braid, ending just above the flare of my hips.

"Wait," he says, and his fingers press into my brand, and I know without looking that he's erased that, too. "Ar lasa mala revas. You are free."

"It is not the brand that cages me." I lift my hand, the reflection pool flickers with memories. Myself, torn away from a mother at far too young an age. Myself, crying on the floor of the Harrowing Chamber, surrounded by Templars. Myself, staring blankly while Kinloch Hold falls to demons and abominations. Myself, staring blankly as a young man fumbles with the laces of my robes, snickering. Myself, staring blankly as Templar whips cut my skin. Myself, staring blankly as an unpracticed mouth finds my docile breast. Myself, staring blankly -

Solas catches my hand from the air, and the reflection pool cracks loudly as it turns to dull ice. His eyes blaze with anger as the breath betweens us turns frosty white.

"It is over now," he says. "You are not that Tranquil slave."

"And yet it happened. It was _real_." The rustle of wintry leaves sweeps through the gardens, and a single scar reappears on my neck.

He shakes his head. "But now you are free."

But freedom is frightening. Freedom means flying and falling and failing in turn, and I am so afraid to fail. Solas steps closer, reaches out to erase that scar once more. His fingers are warm as summertime on my skin, and he leans close, like he might kiss me, like soon there might not be any space between us at all.

"You have shown more wisdom than any their Circles and alienages have produced. You dream like one born to it. You - " He steps back, and my heartbeat slows even though I didn't know it was racing. "You have chosen freedom for others - why not yourself?"

"Perhaps I will begin with more sleep," I say, and I tug my lips into a smile.

"That sounds like a wise decision, Inquisitor."

Snow drifts softly around us, and I lift my head to wonder at it, to watch light refract in perfect rainbows upon Skyhold.

* * *

Mid morning light streams through stained glass windows as I walk through the throne room. I haven't felt this rested in weeks. _I slept without once hearing Myrrha._ When was the last time I managed that? Not since I woke in the dungeons in Haven. Not since I didn't dream at all. I check my hair with my fingers, briefly checking that the pair of braids I twisted there feel secure.

Ghilan gallops ahead of me, trotting toward the yard.

"Where are you going, silly hound?" I call. She just turns and barks merrily before bounding toward the sunlight. _Suit yourself._ Whatever meetings I find myself tangled in today will surely be dull work for a war dog, at any rate.

Blackwall and Sera sit at one of the long tables, the remains of breakfast scattered in front of them, and I smile as Sera catches my eye.

"Oy! Inquisitor!" she calls, waving me over. "You slept in. Maybe you did what the Bull did last night, yeah?"

"Sera - " Blackwall warns.

"Shut it, you. I saw him with _three_ lady knights in the Herald's Rest, and I think one of em' was looking for another, which is just too many hands, yeah? Maybe that's what's got you sleeping this morning. All that rolling and parts and _hands_ \- "

"Sera," Blackwall repeats gruffly, but he grins under his beard, too. "Don't mind her, Inquisitor. Sera has been unladylike all morning."

"I've been unladylike my whole life, you shite."

"Do I want to know how late the two of you were drinking last night?" I ask with a grin.

"No, my lady," he says. "I fear I could not forgive myself if I gave more details - "

"Don't pretend you were just sittin' there, blushing like some kind of virgin," Sera says. "Blackwall gets cheeky like a mercenary he drinks, see. I think pretty Josie was shocked. But yeah, crazy right? All this new shite in Skyhold. Servants. Little people, big people. Tavern. Curtains everywhere. All these heroes all around. And there's this new dwarf, see? Makes me want to do things. _Naughty_ things, if you - "

"Maker, Sera, just because you're still drunk doesn't mean you should talk like that in front of the Inquisitor."

"It's just Aderyn, yeah? And besides, this new dwarf - she's just so...twee!"

I laugh, and Sera sticks her tongue out at Blackwall. "Twee?"

"You'll see. She's just grabbing more tea. She's already promised to come down to the practice yard later and watch my form so she can make me a new bow."

"Is she a blacksmith?"

"Got some kind of fancy job. I dunno." Sera lowers her voice and leans forward, grin splitting her face wide. "I don't really care about the bow - my bow's fine. But I've got a plan to - "

"Addie!"

The three of us whip our heads around in unison, and a dwarf I know stands behind us, waving as she balances a teapot in her other hand. She bustles over to the table and leaves the pot in front of us. She stands up straight and grins, eyes blue and wide and familiar beneath a shock of red hair.

"Oh, er. I guess it's Inquisitor now, right? _In-qui-si-tor_. How strange is that? I heard it was you, of course, but I don't really know that I believed it until right now. Will you cast a spell for me? Well, maybe not right here - I've set up in the Undercroft, and I want to be able to take some measurements, study the anchor - Oh! You're looking at me really funny."

"I am sorry." I say. "I did not intend - "

"Oh! Oh no, I should introduce myself, shouldn't I? We don't really know what effect healed Tranquility has on memory, and it's been...how many years? Six? Seven? I'm - "

"I remember you very well, Dagna." She came to Kinloch Hold during the Blight, after the Tower fell, after I was already Tranquil for months. And she stayed for a few years, performing experiments, designing new Runes, studying the Fade from the perspective of someone not connected to it. And I worked with her, as did the other Tranquil. I remember good, difficult work, the kind that could tie my mind in enough knots that I couldn't possibly think about anything else. I couldn't get stuck in loops of misunderstanding, couldn't wind my mind around in circles, trying to puzzle out what pieces of me were missing and which were still there.

"Oh. Good. That's good." Worry crosses her face. "Are you...is it all right that I'm here?"

"Yes! Yes of course," I say, grinning so she'll grin in turn, even though seeing her feels incredibly strange. I remember her, but I didn't miss her when she was gone. I didn't like her, or dislike her, or laugh at her jokes. I've never had a feeling about Dagna the Arcanist at all. I suppress a shiver, so as not to disturb the massive smile she wears all the way to her apple cheeks. "Welcome to Skyhold, of course. Just - what are you doing here, exactly?"

"I'm your new Arcanist! I'm a lot better than I was in Ferelden. I've been to a dozen Circles, now, studied with all kinds of people, and hardly anything explodes anymore! Well. Hardly anything that I don't _want_ to explode, anyway. And I can make better runes and armors now, and I started making _really_ great staffs."

"You've joined the Inquisition?"

"You bet! Right now, I'm working with you Ambassador to make protective dress for you and your inner circle to wear to the ball in Halamshiral. She introduced me to Lady Vivienne this morning, and we've been talking about fashion and enchantments and the fact that you might get bloody at a ball."

"I'm going to a ball in Halamshiral?"

"Well, that's what Josephine says, at least. I have a question - what kind of staff do you use? I know that in Kinloch Hold there were so many mages that favored pure spirit magic, but really, you get more punch out of something with an elemental base. I want to make you something exciting! Have you been to the forge here? It's amazing."

"I - I use a frost staff usually." Before Dagna can take the conversation and run away again, I search for redirection. "I, um...have you met Helisma and Clemence yet? They know most of the other Tranquil in Skyhold. I'm sure they can find very capable assistants for you, who prefer to helpful."

"I have! I like Clemence. You know how some Tranquil are a little bit funny? He's funny. He reminds me of Owain - do you remember Owain? He never let me have the good stuff from the stockroom, and you used to sneak in and steal it for me."

"Yes," I say, and a smile sneaks onto my lips. "I preferred to break the rules sometimes."

I don't know that I ever expected to smile about my time as Tranquil, but I'm smiling now at tiny rebellions, little strengths. My heart swells in my chest, and I say a little thank you to...someone. Andraste, maybe. The Maker, maybe. Or maybe just Dagna, for being the sort of woman who sees all the beautiful variations in all people, who reminds me that I was never completely blank.

"Yeah, you did." She glances around the room, shifting on her feet. "Hey, Inquisitor? I have to go - I think Harritt will kill me if I burn down the forge during my first week. But uh, I wanted to tell you. You're really pretty when you smile. I'm glad I know that now." She blushes and waves at Sera, bounding away toward the undercroft before I have time to formulate a response.

"Maker's tits, I'm pretty sure you know everybody there ever was. Also, people used to call you _Addie_? " Sera says. "No, never mind. Cough up, beardy. I won the bet."

"You most certainly did not."

"What bet is this?" I ask, and Blackwall groans.

"Don't tell her."

"Oy, whatever you. I think Dagna is partial to lady parts, yeah? Get it? Partial to parts? But Mr. Bear-for-a-face thinks I'm wrong. But did you see all that blushing? Called you pretty, she did. I won."

"This is nothing you need trouble yourself with, my lady," Blackwall says with a chuckle. "Sera is just - "

"Inquisitor." A messenger appears beside me before Blackwall is forced to come up with a gentlemanly excuse. He clears his throat and shifts on his feet, while Sera giggles at the blush he wears on his face. "A - Ambassador Montilyet wishes to meet with you in her office this afternoon. The apostate Solas would like to see you at your earliest convenience to help stabilize your mark, and Commander Cullen would like to see you at once."

"At once?" Sera says, elbowing me in the rib. I shoot her a glare.

"Or, er, at your um, earlier...earliest convenience, your worship."

"Is he in the war room, or…?"

"In his office on the ramparts, your worship."

"Thank you," I say. "You can tell the Ambassador that I will be with her after the noon meal." He nods and rushes away, rifling through more notes as he heads toward the atrium.

" _At once,_ " Sera repeats.

"I am afraid the two of you will have to settle your bets without me."

"Yeah, yeah. See you around, Inquisitor."

I walk away with a smile on my face, and the laughter that floats from their table as they finish their meal is almost enough to make it real. Those are people worth fighting for, worth resting and waking for. Warden Blackwall and Sera the Friend of Red Jenny, people who might never have met, laughing together. Not swallowed by demons. Not killed by a tainted dragon. This is _enough_.

But as I cross the courtyard and climb to the stairs to the ramparts, my heart pounds in my chest. I wish my skin would stop itching with remembered closeness. I wish I couldn't see the hurt I put in Cullen's eyes by pulling away.

I wish I hadn't let Solas step so close in the Fade. Or had I? That part only feels half real, just a wispy fragment of a dream, something left behind accidentally by a good night's rest. Cullen brushing my brand feels so much more real than Solas performing the same motion. Maybe that's because no matter how many times he looks at it, no matter how many times he brushes its edges, Cullen can never make my brand disappear.

I worry at the arrangement of my scarf, and I adjust my hair around the points of my ears. _You are extraordinary_ , he said, and then I ran away. _At once_.

I lift my hand to knock on his door, and it flies open.

"Cullen." He stands in front of me, hair a little out of place, furs a little askew on his shoulders, eyes wide as he looks at me.

"I - Inquisitor. I - I...I didn't expect - "

"If this is a bad time - "

"No! No, of course not. I was l-looking for you, actually."

"A messenger found me."

"Right." He tears his fingers through his hair, and glances over his shoulder. "Come in, of course."

Cullen's office is lined with bookshelves and littered with maps and missives and reports. It's the office of a man who works too much and sleeps too little, the office of a man who spends his nights in the war room rather than his bed. And on his desk is a lyrium kit, open and staring at us.

"Oh, I'll come back after you take it. You should have privacy - I don't want to intrude. I didn't mean - "

"Aderyn." My name falls off his lips softly, and I stop with my hand on the door handle. "It's not what it looks like."

"You don't have to lie for me. I know what lyrium is, and I know you can't just stop - "

" _Aderyn._ " He sighs. "Maker's breath, this isn't going as p-planned."

"I don't understand." I watch him warily as he paces the length of his desk, his eyes making fleeting escapes from the floor in front of him to find something in mine.

"I, um. Last night," he says. "I need to apologize."

"Oh, no. I was tired, and I should be the one to apologize. I should never have asked you what I did. It wasn't fair. And the way I left, I…"

"No. You're struggling, and I responded with anger."

"I deserved it."

"Stop. That's not true, and I...I wasn't completely forthright with you. With the reasons for my anger." He looks to that lyrium kit, brow tight and jaw clenched. "I - um...We've secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here."

"That's good news."

"Yes. But that's not...I keep telling you that I am not a Templar anymore. But there's something I haven't told you, and I should. You deserve to know." He stands straight and looks me in the eye, and my heart pounds aching-fast in my chest. He looks like a boy I knew, a young, curly-haired Templar who so wanted to look _strong_. "I no longer take it."

I step toward him, searching every line and angle of his face, every tiny movement for some sign of that truth. He's weary, I've known that. His hands shake sometimes, and I've known that, too. _Maker_. I've seen Templars deprived of lyrium. I've seen Templars whose addiction outstripped what the Order would provide. I know what withdrawal looks like. I should have seen it. I should have _known_.

"For how long?"

"Since I joined the Inquisition. It's been months now."

I wince, and guilt snakes through my chest. _I am not a Templar anymore._ I didn't believe him, not really. Maker, but I should have _known_. "You must be in pain."

"I can endure it." He stands still and solid, and I want so desperately believe him.

"People die from this," I say. "They lose their minds, they - "

"If I keep taking it, I'll lose my mind anyway." He looks to the ceiling, like he might find guidance there, like he might find the Maker just by looking upward. "Cassandra has been monitoring me. I am being cautious. And if I am no longer able to fulfill my duties to the Inquisition, she will find a replacement."

"Is that a danger?"

"Not at the moment." He shifts, letting his hand fall from the pommel of his sword. "I just felt you deserved the truth. I should have told you sooner."

"Don't. This can't be easy."

"I should have been more understanding last night. There are certain realities to being who and what we were and are. We both know that. You're right, it's not easy, but I want…" He lets out a long breath. I wait for him to finish that thought, because I don't know what he wants, or what I can give, or how long I can go before I feel so very tired again. "I want to be free of the man the Chantry made me."

"You _are_ free." _Ar lasa mala revas,_ Solas said. Except this moment, right here with a man who both is and isn't forged by the Chantry, those words feel so hollow on my lips. Saying he's free won't erase his withdrawal. It won't wash away decades of regimented training and carefully executed duty.

"I'm trying to be, at least." He smiles, but his eyes are still sad, still haunted. I know the feeling.

"I'm trying, too." Ten years of helplessness beat me into the shape of a victim, while a childhood of lectures and leashes and horror stories taught me to fear. A lifetime of captivity taught me to be caged. And I _want_. I want to be more than a frightened prisoner in search of a fresh jailor. I want to be more than the bitter runaway that I've played before.

I used to think we were two people on either side of a great chasm, neither willing to walk the narrow, forbidden bridge to common ground. But I forgot that there were chains holding us back, forgot that we were bound apart by fate and design. That we are tangled in pasts that we'll always have to carry with us.

I but today, after more continuous sleep than I've had in weeks, today I have faith. I have faith that we can break these chains. That we can open our cages to fresh air.

My toes lift me toward his mouth, and today it is me who kisses him, lips pressed to soft lips, like trading a whisper. He cups my jaw and slides his hand through my hair to the point of my ear. His other hand runs the curve of my waist, fingers gently coaxing fire in my skin.

I break away before that fire can grow too hot, before my pattering heart turns to something fierce and frightening. A blush heats my cheeks, though, and my tingling lips smirk at the sound of his breath.

"That was - um. Really nice," he says.

"Yes. Yes it was," I murmur, and I pick at my fingernails, wishing for something more elegant to say. "Solas is looking for me. Something about the anchor."

"Good."

"Good?"

"You forget that I saw you last night, Addie. It's hurting you, and the world is full of too much unavoidable pain to endure anything we don't have to."

"Solid advice, Commander," I say.

"I try, Inquisitor," he replies.

"I...I'll see you at the war table later, I'm sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure you will."

As I duck out of his office, I'm not sure if I expect to sprout wings and fly away, or rush back in to make sure he's all right. _I can endure it_ , he says, because the shared world outside our cages is big enough to fight for. And I want to believe him. For both of us, I so want to believe him.

* * *

In the atrium, Solas stands atop a scaffold, sketching lines on roughly plastered walls. All his muscles are taught, from fingertip to bare toes, and his eyes blaze bright, like they do in the Fade. He's usually the sort of man who notices you before you notice him, but now I think I could stand here forever, and he'd never look up from his work.

"Solas?"

He freezes, and I half expect him to whirl around in anger at the interruption. But his eyes are soft by the time they land on mine, and the wolf is nowhere to be found.

"Aneth ara, Inquisitor."

He smiles as he climbs down the ladder to meet me on the ground. He stands at a respectful distance, like he never dismissed scars with a gentle touch, like I didn't show him dark memories or reveal truths I never speak. Like it was all just a trick of the Fade. Maker, I hope we can just let it be a trick of the Fade.

"What are you doing to my castle?" I ask.

"I am making a gift for you. A skill I picked up in the Fade." He stops in front of me, smudges of red ink used for sketching on his fingers and the side of his nose. "It can wait. This part, at least, is not time sensitive."

"And what are the other parts?"

"A surprise," he says. "Come. We should see to the anchor. I think with meditation and a little magic, we might be able to stabilize it for you. Make saving the world a little easier on you, da'len."

"Ma nuvenin, _hahren_ ," I shoot back, and he smiles. "You do know I'm almost thirty, don't you? I'm flattered, of course, that you think me young, but it's hardly accurate."

"Ah, but I am much older than that, da'len. And you should take it before you really do become a hahren yourself." He smirks as he leads me to cushions along the edge of the room, and we kneel together.

"I have a question before we begin," I say. His head tilts, and he lifts a curious brow. _Be brave, Aderyn Surana. This is how you will be just fine._ "When you are walking the Fade, how do you tell the difference between spirits and demons?"

"That is a very broad question. Is there any particular reason you would ask it?"

"I have a troublesome acquaintance."

Solas sits back on his heels, eyes sharp with curiosity.

"Tell me everything."


	27. Your Will is Real

 

_Her name is Myrrha._

That's how this conversation began. And then, Solas really did want to know everything. Where does she reside in the Fade, how do I get there, what does she look like, what does she _want_. Eventually, he just stares at me wearing his soft apostate eyes, like he's not a wolf at all.

"There are not many spirits who take names," Solas says.

"So she is a demon."

"That's not what I said."

I sigh. The atrium stretches upward around us, toward the balcony of the library and upward still, to the rookery and our birds. I wonder if sound carries, if people will hear us way up there, conversation floating through raven calls.

"The voice in the Fade. The one that wanted you to rest." Solas says. "That was her?"

"Yes."

"Well, she's not wrong." Solas smiles, and I roll my eyes.

"She's also the very reason I _haven't_ been sleeping."

"Is that true?" Solas waits on his heels, watching me.

"Of course it is."

"And it has nothing to do with the images you showed me in the Fade last night?"

My mouth tightens to a thin line, and I glance up again, to where Skyhold bustles with life. I hate that my eyes itch with unshed tears, hate that I showed him that much of myself, hate that even an allusion to it can make my heart race. I stand up, legs suddenly restless from kneeling.

"Let's walk. Let's find someplace...quieter."

"Ma nuvenin, lethallan." He stands beside me, and I lead him through the throne room and to a staircase downward. The lower reaches of Skyhold were some of the first places that I explored when we arrived, but for all the foot traffic here, Solas and I might be the only two people in the Inquisition who know about these dusty halls.

I lead him to an alcove full of books, and this old, forgotten place feels a little bit like home. He smiles like he always knew this is where we'd be going, and he lights a torch on the wall with a wave of his hand. My feet are still restless, however, and they itch as a pace in front of a large desk, full of books and papers as if abandoned in the middle of long-past work.

"You can't - " I begin. "I would prefer that you not tell anyone about what I showed you."

"I would never," he says. I can feel him trying to catch my eye, but I keep my own eyes trained on dusty bindings. "Lethallan, you have to believe that I would never gossip about something like that."

"Thank you. I just...showing you was a mistake. I am sorry you had to see it."

"What was done to you was barbaric." He grabs my arm, and I stop pacing without lifting my eyes. "If any of those responsible still live - "

"Do you not see what has become of Thedas? We all have better things to do than dole out vengeance."

"The Inquisition has considerable resources now. Those monsters deserve - "

"Stop. Please stop." I rub the tip of my ear, where Cullen's hand so recently roamed. If Solas knew the whole truth, I'm sure he'd count our Commander among those responsible monsters. And I kissed him today, kissed him because he is not a Templar anymore, because if he isn't a Templar than maybe I am not a Circle mage, maybe I am not that Tranquil slave. _Oh Maker, I kissed Cullen Rutherford today._ "I came to you because you know about the Fade."

"Ir'abelas. I have been a distraction." He releases my arm, and my eyes snap to his in the dusty torchlight.

"She...she looks for me when I'm not there."

"That is concerning, but not damning."

"I knew her before I was Tranquil, and she found me ten years later."

Solas sighs, fingers tapping briefly on the point of his chin. "Some spirits are fascinated by the world beyond the Veil. All are a reflection of emotions, embodying bits and pieces of our world. Perhaps she has decided to embody an aspect of you, and for that she needs contact. And perhaps she has done this with another before, perhaps with someone named Myrrha. Most spirits are content to remain more aloof, but this interest alone does not make her a demon."

"So...so Myrrha - the real Myrrha - was probably just some red-haired elf that a spirit took an interest in? And my Myrrha has now just...just taken an interest in me?" That thought slides in my gut. In a way, that's the most frightening thing he could have said, because that means the sloth is in _me._ It means the weariness I feel is all mine, and leaving her behind will not let me escape it.

"It's a possibility. You could ask her."

"She could lie."

"Is that what you think or what the Circle taught you to think?"

I grit my teeth, and my heart pounds. I'm not sure what I expected Solas to say. _Yes, yes. Sounds like a demon. Here, I will give you an ancient spell that will allow you to avoid her until the day you drop dead._

"Are you telling me you don't think demons lie? I am not a Circle mage anymore, but I am not stupid, either." Old lessons, true lessons, echo through my skull. Ones taught by Irving and Wynne, the important sort about avoiding possession and staying alive. How many times did Irving say it? _Keep your wits about you, child._ _Your will is real, child. You must be smart, child_. _Don't trust their promises, child_.

"I am only trying to gather information." He stands across from me, solid and unchanging, but here in the waking world, he looks helpless and small.

"I should never have burdened you with this." I say, trying to move past him out of the room. "I would prefer that you forget all about it."

"Aderyn, don't walk away." He reaches for me again, but I step back. I'm suddenly aware of how close we were in the Fade, how soft his fingers felt on my skin, how carefully he tried to erase the scars that he mistook for shackles. He sighs and takes a step back as well. "If I could meet her, I would be better equipped to assess the danger."

"No." The word flies off my tongue before I know how strongly I feel it. But Myrrha is mine, something private and hidden and even talking about her feels like giving away a thousand dangerous secrets. Myrrha knows everything about me, big and small, everything that makes me weary. And the place where she lives - that's a place for me and her and no one else. "I do not wish to see her."

Solas looks away, eyes traveling the spines of books as though they might provide him with guidance. "I can help you avoid her in the short term, if that's what will help you sleep."

"Whatever spell or protection you can provide - "

"It is not a spell, lethallan. Simply a meditation to practice before sleep, so you might guide where you appear in the Fade."

I nod. _It is enough._

"It is an imperfect and temporary solution. But for now...perhaps I might take a look at the anchor as planned."

I hold out my hand and he takes it, long fingers running gently across that glowing gash on my palm. He pulls two chairs out of dusty corners, and the two of us sit opposite each other in the shadows. His hands glow for a moment, the light white and bright as it curls over my skin. I let out a long breath as the edge dulls on the near-constant ache I've been carrying in my hand.

"Ma serannas, lethallin."

* * *

Hours later, I leave Solas and his quiet meditations behind. My muscles feel looser - I'd forgotten what it felt like to move without tense shoulders and a persistent pain in my palm. And I have a plan now, a set of meditations on nearby corners of the Fade, places where I can avoid Myrrha and her calls to rest.

Josephine sits behind her desk, and her eyes scan a scroll in front of her. She takes furious notes as she goes, the scratch of her pen on parchment a quiet rhythm in the room.

"Inquisitor," she says, dropping her pen and tugging at the perfect pleats on her sleeve. "Come. We have much to discuss."

"That sounds ominous." I move toward her, snagging a chair from the corner to pull in front of her desk.

"Perhaps it is. I don't imagine you know how to waltz?"

"The Tranquil are not much for dancing, as it happens."

"Of course not." She snags a fresh scroll from a drawer, and begins to scribble notes. I look from her to the page and back again, stretching my loosened fingers to keep from tensing again.

"Is there someone who very desperately wishes to waltz with me? I imagine they could easily find a more skilled partner."

"I imagine there will be a dozen people who wish to waltz with you in Halamshiral." She pauses for a moment, pen hovering over inkwell before she places it neatly on the table. "Let me start again. You know I was in Val Royeaux for a time while you were in Crestwood. While there, I secured an invitation to a grand masquerade. The Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons has goaded her brother, Gaspard, and her cousin, Empress Celene, into holding peace talks at Halamshiral."

"Oh."

"Every power in Orlais will be there - it is the perfect place for an assassin to hide." Josephine takes a deep breath as I sit straighter.

"Corypheus."

"I believe so, yes."

How many books have I read about the bloody formality of Orlesian politics? Too many. I suddenly feel as if my body were all arms and legs, suddenly aware that I'm still ten years out of practice reading faces and meeting eyes. I do not, in any way, know how to waltz.

"Any chance that we could simply send a note?" I reply. I wish it sounded more like a joke. "We do have the Wardens to contend with, and I'm much better at killing demons than exchanging courtly niceties."

"I'm afraid we will have to postpone your trip to the Western Approach until after the ball," Josephine says. "Look on the bright side, Inquisitor. You'll be perfectly able to exchange niceties with the demons when you get there."

"Oh, well. In that case, let's get to work."

* * *

_Cole_

* * *

It has been weeks.

Josephine is hurting again.

The Inquisitor isn't ready for the ball, she doesn't know enough quips or turns of phrase, enough crests and habits and dangers. There are too few hours in every day, even though they sit on her balcony with papers and drawings and maps between them for hours and hours, even though she has done everything she can to teach the Game. The Inquisitor keeps getting called away, called to close rifts and save lives and leave her learning behind. There's not enough _time_.

I leave a scroll on her desk, where the Inquisitor has listed Council members from memory, with facts beside each name.

Aderyn is hurting again.

She isn't ready for the ball. She is clever, attentive, sharp with facts and easy with names, but she is a poor dancer. She can learn the steps, but songs happen with the red-haired friend, and nights are filled with the wolf and unfamiliar places now. She wants to dance with Cullen, but she doesn't know how. She is tired, she misses the friend, misses gentle rhythms and pretty things, soft hair and bookshelves.

I leave a cup of tea in her quarters, the kind she drank in Ferelden.

Leliana is hurting again.

Her friends are here, the Wardens, the heroes. But they have grown and she has grown, and they are far apart now. Caja remembers a righteous Chantry sister, but the Left Hand has been harder than that for years. And she cannot afford sentiment, cannot let them remind her of the dreams she had of the Maker, cannot let herself slip into old, comfortable, beautiful shoes. They defy their order because it is right, and she pulls strings in the shadows, ending lives because it is required.

I leave a pair of blue suede slippers beside her bed, like the ones Caja bought for her when all else was dark and Blighted.

Hawke is hurting again.

It has been months since she last saw the little one with raven hair, months since she last saw Anders, since she left him in the rain alone and daughterless, partnerless, ragged and exhausted from fighting the urge to fight. And yet, it has only been hours since she last saw her brother, who is older now and harder now and better now, whose presence scrapes at old scars left by other deaths, whose presence soothes hurts left behind by abandoned friends.

I drop a deck of Varric's cards on her bed, the kind that they use to play Wicked Grace.

My feet carry softly along Skyhold's ramparts, past soldiers and sellswords and pilgrims, all their eyes drawn to mountaintops, up and up to silver skies. It tastes like the cold, like summer is over and the chill is coming. It hurts them. I will stoke the fires in the barracks tonight, so the soldiers stay warm long after the sun disappears behind the edge of the world.

They all hurt, but there's another voice that's louder than theirs. It beats against my ears, too loud to ignore. I slip under the noise and into his office. He doesn't see me. He never sees me, not until I speak. He doesn't want me to be real.

Cullen stoops over his desk.

" _The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains."_

He sucks in breath, hard and sudden, and his eyes find me in the room.

"Maker's breath, get _out_."

" _You are extraordinary._ She kissed you, twice, mouth seeking and body soft. You want her, but she pulls away most of the time. _I would prefer to remember_. But she was afraid. Your skin still glowed from the hungry roamings of her hands, but she was fleeing scars you could see and some you couldn't. You think you should have known better."

"The Inquisitor may put up with your mutterings, but I have little patience for demons." He moves toward me, eyes dangerous and armor glinting. But he's still hurting, and I want to _help_.

"It's not your fault."

"I'm warning you - "

"She wants to be brave, but touching makes her remember what she prefers to forget. And yet her heart swells when she sees you, and her fingers ache to run through your hair. _And yet_ , she whispers to herself, always on the brink of sinking into the smell of fur and fire smoke and leather, because less is never _enough_."

Cullen looms, tall and broad and afraid. _Hurting_.

"You leave the bottle on the table, even though it sings to you, even though you ache, even though you wake in the night. You think it's not enough, you think you might still be the monster that served the Chantry and the Maker, the monster that would do as he was commanded. But she sees you, the boy who blushed in gardens, the man who held her hand when hot, glowing needles pierced her veins."

"What do you want from me, demon?"

"I - I - I want you to stop hurting. I want you to know it's not your fault. Templars killed me, but you were never like that. Not even when it sang in you, not even when you guarded the Gallows. You were harsh, but you were never a monster."

His nostrils flare, eyes still angry.

"Leave me."

I slip toward the door. Maybe I should make him forget, but he is quieter. Just a little. Maybe I helped, maybe he would prefer to remember, like she does. And yet I can still hear him from the ramparts, hurts echoing beyond his walls.

_Mages aren't people like you and me. The Rite was created as a mercy so mages need not be killed out of hand. There is an argument to be made for applying it more widely. I will do as I am commanded. They want no controls on them at all. Being blind and deaf is not rest._

_I will_ _**not** _ _do as I was commanded._

I grab a dagger from a mercenary's belt as I stride past, and I make my way toward the barrel to put it with the others.

_I will not be what they commanded me to be._


	28. The Lion's Den

 

Our hosts in Halamshiral are old friends of Vivienne's. Their estate is near the palace, convenient for the stately carriages that Josephine insists are necessary for a first impression. The rooms we've been appointed drip with velvet and damask and silk, and the furnishings are fine enough to make my lavish rooms at Skyhold appear rustic by comparison. Ghilan looks at me crossly, fur still damp from the bath our hostess insisted upon when I suggested my mighty beast would be sleeping inside.

Looking at her in the corner, I'm not sure what the fuss was about. She's large for a dog, true, but these rooms are massive enough to make her look small, and the Inquisition has been granted several like it. In this particular bedchamber, it is just Madame de Fer and me, and I'm beginning to suspect that this is by design.

"How are you feeling, darling?" Vivienne asks. She stands in front a mirror, her skin radiant against her red dress. The cut is low, the sort she favors, though her skirts are rather fuller than she wears for every day, and her sleeves have a fashionable puff at the shoulder. Still, she looks sleek, lean and dangerous, lips painted red as her dress. She turns to admire herself, and on her back is the watchful eye of the Inquisition, sword pointing dangerously along her spine.

"I am feeling...something, at any rate." My own attire is somewhere between mage's robes, light armor, and a ball gown. Red silk covers me from neck to wrist, embroidered with vines of gold thread. A stiff leather bodice, painted with golden Inquisition heraldry, ends beneath a blue sash. A narrow skirt splits up the lines of both legs to reveal the finest pair of embossed, thigh-high boots I've ever seen. I press my reddened lips together, far too aware of the paints on my own face.

I feel...short, I think, rather like a child who found her mother's wedding dress in a chest.

"Well, don't look so frightened, my dear," she says.

"Because we are going to be perfectly fine?" I press my hand against the leather bodice, feeling for the outlines of Dagna's protective runes. I hope they're not quite as necessary as Cassandra suspects they'll be.

"Of course not. One is never 'perfectly fine' at court. One is always doing very well or _very_ badly."

"Oh." My throat tightens. _Oh._

"Don't say 'oh.' How many times have Leliana, Josephine, and I told you not to say 'oh?'"

"More times than should be necessary." I reach for the carefully constructed curl behind my ear, but Vivienne lifts a brow at the motion. "Right. Hair. No touching."

"Inquisitor, let me give you one last piece of advice before we go downstairs to the carriages that will sweep us away to a lion's den." She moves toward me, her long fingers plucking a brush and shimmering powder from the vanity against the wall as she approaches. "You are never going to play the Game like Leliana or Josephine. They're all charm and wit and pretty smiles. Oh, they can be dangerous when it suits them, but the masks they wear are light. Pleasant."

My eyes follow the graceful curve of her neck as she dusts my cheekbones with a layer of gold. "And I am not pleasant?"

"No. You are, frankly, unnerving. I admit, perhaps your brand is particularly disturbing to me as one who has intimate knowledge of what it _should_ mean. But regardless, you do not often play convincingly at charm."

She puts the cosmetics aside, trading it for one last pin to place in my piled hair. I take one more breath and look her straight in the eye.

"This is not an inspiring speech, Vivienne." She's well over half a foot taller than I am, and she is much more comfortable surrounded by this glut of finery. And yet, I am still the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and I will not fail. I will not kneel to Corypheus' plot simply because Vivienne believes that I am not particularly charming.

"There it is," she says with a smile. "The look you wear when you're indignant, as if nothing can touch you. That is your strength tonight."

She turns me toward the mirror, standing at my back so she can see me see myself, a creature of red and gold I hardly recognize.

"They will want to see a puppet in you, small and insignificant, a knife-eared Circle mage they can corrall and capture. A curious puppet, to be sure, but a puppet nonetheless. Do not let them be right."

I nod, letting my hands fall to my sides as if they didn't want to adjust every buckle, button, and tie on my skirts.

"You're clever, and you're powerful. And at your best, your eyes know it, but the rest of your face is as Tranquil as ever. Use that. Let yourself be the Herald of Andraste tonight."

She reaches to the table once more, and comes back with a half-mask of gold filigree, spare enough that my features are still plain when she settles its delicate weight on my cheeks. And in the center, exactly over my brand, is a solid red sunburst, proud and shining so they may never forget.

I smile and lift my chin as Vivienne places an identical mask on her own face.

"Shall we go to a ball?" I ask, and she returns my smile.

"I believe we shall."

* * *

The Winter Palace glows in the night. Carriages pull up, filled with more finely dressed nobility than I would have expected to see in the whole world. Silk and rubies grow in the gardens as surely as the roses, and the palace itself stretches up like a false mountain toward crawling clouds.

I lift my chin and school my features, trying not to hunch my shoulders so I do not become some unobtrusive elf, the elven handmaiden in the Inquisition's party.

"Inquisitor Surana."

I turn my head toward a man in a gold mask with a pointed nose, and Josephine leans forward to whisper in my ear.

"The Grand Duke Gaspard," she murmurs, and I nod.

"It is my great pleasure to meet you," he continues. His formal armor gleams, and he bows before me, briefly and with a small flourish. "Tales of your adventures have dazzled the court. The Tranquil mage who walked the Fade, who was brought back from the dead by Andraste herself. If you would permit it, I would guide you through the Winter Palace on my arm tonight, so a woman of such faith may not be lost in the Game."

"A kind offer from the rebel upstart," I reply. My heart hammers in my chest, but I keep my face Tranquil and hope that my eyes still burn. _Do not let them be right._ "Or is it the rightful ruler of Orlais? You must forgive me. I fear I will be so very lost tonight."

My eyes ache to check in with Leliana or Josephine or Vivienne. _Did I do it? Was that right? Am I playing the Game?_ But I wait for Gaspard instead, and the subtle crack in his courtly smile is enough to ease my anxiety.

"Just imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of a strong emperor in Orlais," he replies. "Hold the image in your mind."

"It is certainly a picture," I reply. He takes my arm, but he is stiff beside me. The rest of the Inquisition trails behind as we walk toward the palace proper. _Let yourself be the Herald of Andraste tonight._

I haven't felt like Andraste was watching over me for a long time now. But tonight I stretch creaky muscles, search within myself for a dusty certainty I left at the Breach. I hope that she sees me here, the fool that thought for a moment that she might be a prophet. And yet, prophet or not, I hope that tonight I will sing only the words she places in my throat.

Most of all, I hope she will forgive me, just for tonight, for failing to practice my faith.

* * *

The introductions last for an eternity.

Cassandra's name alone stretches for long moments, drawn out by a flourishing accent. _Cassandra...Allegra...Portia...Calogera…_ She seethes as they say it, and I want so desperately to roll my eyes with her, to feel a moment of easy camaraderie at the absurdity of all this fanciful pageantry.

I keep my eyes forward, feet planted firmly on the steps facing the dancefloor. Empress Celene watches me from behind her mask, dressed in royal blue, porcelain shoulders bare as the stiff silk of her bodice takes on a life all its own. Her eyes flicker to my companions as they're announced, but they always return to me.

She looks so untouchable, standing there. For a fraction of a moment, I see her the way she wants to be seen - _invincible._

But I know dangers lurk behind velvet and satin tonight. I know that without me, she'll die before sunrise. I know that without me, the sky will open, and our world will rot into something sick and red.

Why fate or something like it would put me of all people here is irrelevant, at least for tonight. I've put on my glittering armor, donned my golden mask. For a moment, my mark threatens to shine through my silk gloves, but I just stand and wait. Tranquil. Vigilant.

_I will not kneel_.

* * *

Somehow, I find myself dancing with Grand Duke Gaspard. He says it would be a terrible embarrassment for him if he did not dance with his guest at least once. I am tempted to allow his embarrassment, but I am more afraid of what Leliana will do to me if I refuse than any shame I may incur upon myself. My feet are clumsy here in a way they never are on a battlefield, but at least the steps are familiar from Josephine's lessons.

As we glide across the ballroom, he whispers.

"If you have the safety of the Orlesian people at heart, Inquisitor, perhaps you would look into something for me."

I lift a brow at him, tilting my chin as I make a tentative turn.

"The elven woman. Briala. I suspect she intends to disrupt the negotiations."

"Oh?" _Don't say 'oh.'_

"My people have found these 'ambassadors' all over the fortifications. Sabotage seems the least of their crimes."

I take his hand as the music swells, extending my other hand outwards before I see the woman in front of me place hers on her hip.

"I would prefer that the negotiations go smoothly. I am certain this is something we have in common."

"Just so, Inquisitor. Just so."

* * *

As I exit the dance floor, the masquerade swallows me.

Josephine introduces me to her perfectly lovely sister, who seems utterly oblivious to the Game around her. I smile, and hope I am sufficiently charming. I hope I live up to some of her sparkling impressions of the Herald of Andraste.

Over her shoulder, an elven servant trips over his heeled shoes, and his slender legs falter. A tray of miniature cakes careens through the air, tiny butterflies made of sugar shattering as they hit marble floors.

My breath catches as the lords and ladies that surround him sneer at him as he scrambles to clean the mess. One younger man, human and tall and looming, kicks his chin with a glittering boot when he dares to clean too near to his pointed toe.

My jaw gives a sympathetic twinge. How many times had Templars done something similar to me as I cleaned the floors in Kinloch Hold? Too many times.

"Inquisitor - "

Josephine touches my shoulder before I realize I'm moving past her, but I don't stop. I stop short of getting on my hands and knees beside him - I have a feeling Vivienne would skin me alive if she saw the Inquisitor dirtying her skirts at the ball, but I pick up his tray and extend my hand when he's ready to stand up.

He takes it, gently. He is younger than I first imagined, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and his wide eyes remind me of a boy I knew when I was young. Eadric. He died when Uldred sacked Kinloch Hold. Jowan and I used to tease him, because when someone is prickly and frightened, it is easy to be unkind.

"M-my lady Inquisitor," he stammers. "I-I apologize if I offended. I will bring more cakes right away. I hope I didn't - "

I shake my head, and he quiets. "What is your name?"

"It's Adahlen, my - your worship."

"I am pleased to meet you, Adahlen."

He blinks, confused, but then slips away into this forest of finery. Josephine looks at me like she has no idea what to do about me at all. But Cullen stands in the corner behind her, and his eyes are the ones that I seek. A half dozen men and women lean toward him, but his smile is only for me.

_You are extraordinary,_ his tawny eyes whisper. _I am uncomfortable,_ his posture shouts, arms crossed over his broad chest, velvet dress uniform clinging more tightly to his skin than any clothing he would normally wear. And yet, with his golden curls and handsome mouth, I see what those admirers see. Cullen Rutherford looks like a girlhood dream come to life.

"Inquisitor, when you have a moment," Leliana says, tapping my shoulder as she sweeps toward the entrance hall. I take a sharp breath. Her hips sway in her gown, red and gold but for the raven feathers that flare around her wrist.

I follow her, and Cullen waves nervously as I pass him by. I wave back, and he blushes. Would that could be one of his admirers tonight. Perhaps I might steal him away, so the two of us could find some quiet corner where no one would force us to dance, no one would ogle or crane their necks to catch a look at the dread Inquisitor or her handsome Commander.

* * *

Whispering with Leliana is not an escape from machinations.

Her voice is soft, but her eyes glitter with the joys of splendor and betrayal. I worry at my sleeves as she tells me about an occult advisor of Celene's, a woman who seems to be missing from the fabric of the ball.

"You know her," I state rather than ask.

"Yes. Morrigan and I traveled together with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight. I have not seen her in many years, however."

"She helped to end the Blight, and yet you believe she is an agent of a darkspawn Magister?"

"Morrigan is ruthless and capable of anything. More than that, I cannot say."

"And what do Caja and Alistair think of her?" I ask. Sadness or something like it flickers across her pretty features. I wish that the Wardens and Hawke hadn't marched ahead with Harding and her scouts just now. We'd all agreed that their presence would be an unwelcome distraction at court, one inviting far too more questions about the particulars of our fight against Corypheus than we're willing to answer at this moment. But Alistair would give up secrets far sooner than Leliana, I think.

"They did not part on good terms." Her eyes flit to other guests, her golden mask catching the light. "The guest wing is a good place to start, and you might try the library as well."

"And people won't notice I'm missing?"

"It is a rather large party, is it not? Do not disappear for the _whole_ night, of course. But perhaps you might avoid further dancing if you are not in the ballroom."

"Are you teasing me, Nightingale?"

"But of course, Inquisitor. Do be glad I was the one who chose your shoes. I am much more ruthless about terrible shoes."

* * *

My search is fruitful. I think. Everything here is spoken in whispered metaphor, but a tangled picture emerges all the same.

The Empress sent three identical sisters to subtly hint that she'd very much like me to assassinate her cousin. A dropped message suggests Briala's people are disappearing in the Servant's wing. Gaspard has been trying to convince Celene to unite against Briala. There's something about a weapon, and something else to frighten the Empress enough to call "Lady M" to her side for protection.

...There are also a dozen lords interested in Varric's autograph, and Orlesians are _very_ willing to call me 'knife ears' when they think I'm not listening. Solas is a shockingly capable courtier - he spoke breathlessly of the Game, and I've made a note to mention this to Leliana, because I'm starting to believe he's been here before. Also, I'm fairly certain there are no fewer than three unrelated murders being coordinated tonight, all of which have nothing at all to do with Celene, Gaspard, Briala, or Corypheus.

I should be getting back to the ballroom. I've been away for too long.

But the library stretches before me now, and my feet want nothing more than to linger in these halls. Books fly from marble floors to arched ceilings, and the quiet here feels like Kinloch Hold at night. I run my fingers over the spines of books that don't belong to me, and the leather feels forbidden and familiar at once under my silk gloves.

"The faces talk even when they're not moving."

My breath catches. Cole stands behind me. He's taken off his own mask off, and I have no idea where he's put it down. He looks uncomfortable in his finery, fidgeting with buttons and rearranging his hair.

"Silk on satin on skin, always wanting, chaste but chased. Too many."

"Cole. You lost your mask."

"Is that what it was? They have faces inside their faces, lying with a layer that tells the truth. I don't know how to help them."

I let out a long breath as he glances around, eyes flitting to every corner and every shadow.

"Cole," I murmur. " _Cole._ " I put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, and finally, he stills. His blue eyes, wide with fright, settle squarely on mine. I'm not sure I've ever really looked him in the eye before. Maker, his cheeks are hollow.

"They whisper, waiting, watching you. Knife-eared upstart, flat-face simpleton. It's the truth and also a lie, because they didn't even look at you."

"Simpleton. Oh. That's lovely." A bell rings in the ballroom, and I give Cole's shoulder a squeeze before I move away. "I must go, but - but take care of yourself tonight, Cole."

"Cullen is a afraid."

I suck in a sharp breath.

"They're hunting him, following fear. He shouldn't be here."

"Who is hunting him?"

"Wide skirts, slipping above sparkling slippers. A whisper whisks over his neck, unwanted. Lovely man, pretty eyes, broad shoulders, I wonder what his hips look like under his clothes. Save a dance? Are you married? Would it matter?"

"Oh." I picture the men and women who have congregated around Cullen in the ballroom, and the way he shifts his shoulders when they lean close.

"They remind him of desire, violet and bare, wearing a face that looks like yours. But they have two faces and neither looks like either of yours, and I c-can't - I don't know what to do." Cole quiets, and he looks at me as if he could claw some kind of meaning, some kind of direction out of my own face within a face.

_Maker's breath,_ but I'll be glad when we can finally leave this place. The bell rings again. Josephine will have me assassinated herself if I don't head back.

"I'll check on him," I promise. "But you stay out of trouble, all right?"

"I will...try."

I walk like a ghost from the quiet of the library to clamor of the ball. _Andraste guide her Herald_ , because Aderyn Surana ready to run.

* * *

"Well, well. What have we here?"

The voice floats down steps as I hurry back to the ballroom, and I turn to see a golden-eyed woman clad in burgundy silk.

"The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the Faith. Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by hand of Blessed Andraste herself."

I make conscious effort to stand straighter, to summon my fierce eyes in my Tranquil face. _Morrigan._ I'm sure of it.

"What could bring such an Exalted creature to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do even you know?"

The question hangs for a long moment as I study the arch of her brow and the informal way she places her hands on her hips, so different from the delicate fold of an Orlesian noble woman's hands. This, at least, is an easy question to answer in vagaries and double-speak, because the truth has even more entanglements than the court.

"This night will determine the future of the Empire. That greatly affects the fight against Corypheus, does it not?"

"Indeed. I suspect our interests intersect this night, Inquisitor."

"Oh?" _Don't say oh._

She smirks. "Recently I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these very halls. An agent of Tevinter."

I let out a long-held breath. _Venatori._ A threat I can fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> It's been awhile since I said hey. There's more Winter Palace to come, and then lots more story to tell after that. I'm so excited to write it all down.
> 
> I've had a rough fall, but writing this story and knowing that you're out there enjoying it has been something to be truly grateful for. So thank you for listening. Thank you for your clicks, for your bookmarks and kudos, and always and especially, your comments.
> 
> I'm blessed and humbled that you're still out there reading, over a hundred thousand words later.
> 
> Be well,
> 
> Jorie
> 
> PS: I joined Tumblr! (I am a VERY late adopter of all forms of social media.) I don't really know how it works yet, and I don't really know anyone to talk to there yet. But if you *do* know those things, come say hey and teach me! I'm looking for place to hang out as my nerdiest alter-ego ;) 
> 
> Link to me:  joriesilver.tumblr.com 


	29. Blackest Treason

The ballroom turns in tight circles, even those not on the dance floor spinning around each other in carefully coordinated steps. My eyes search for Leliana - I need to tell her all about Morrigan, about private messages and missing elves and all manner of tiny secrets I don't quite understand.

But my gaze catches on masks that Josephine has had me memorizing for weeks, so much more vivid and dangerous in person than in flat illustrations. Cullen stands in the same corner that he occupied when I left, arms crossed and shoulders tense as a tall woman with tanned skin and a green half-mask leans close. A pair of young ladies giggle behind hands beside him, and I grit my teeth. _He shouldn't be here_. I move toward him, hugging the edge of the room.

"...the color of your eyes is a rare thing indeed. I'm sure you hear that quite a lot," the green-masked lady purrs, her lips dangerously close to his skin.

"No. I have never heard such a thing." He leans away, and I know that lean. I know the shadows that lurk behind those lovely amber eyes. I know what it is to fear attention, to shrink from touch.

My stomach turns. I've looked at him like that, I know. I've pulled away from him like that, I know. But he's never done it to me, not once. Even though he has as much cause to fear as I do.

"Surely you know how lovely your jaw is, then."

"No."

"Surely - "

I slip past the last group of whisperers that separate me from Cullen. I'm unsure how much of my anger shows through layered masks of Tranquility and gold, but I'm certain it's more than Vivienne or Josephine would approve of.

"Excuse me, my lady." My voice is sharp and steady, any gentle intonations left far behind. "I must steal away my Commander for a moment."

"My lady Inquisitor," She blinks big eyes behind her mask. "I must regretfully depart, then. Save a dance for me, my Knight-Commander?" she asks, and the tiniest sparks threaten to turn to something more in my clenched fist, for Cullen Rutherford is not a Templar anymore. But Cullen puts a light hand on my back, and his fingers still my readied tongue.

"No, thank you," he says simply. He turns with his hand still on my back, guiding me through the ball room, head low and ready for secret conversation.

"Are you all right?" Cullen murmurs. "I have men in the gardens if you need to make an escape that way, but we can use the balconies or even the front door if we must. I can - "

"Nothing is wrong. I am just checking in."

Muscles unwind under red velvet, and his lips soften under his half-mask. I want to push away the gold filigree that sits so awkwardly on his cheeks, want to steal him away, tell him that he can hide in the library with Cole and the quiet. Except that I need him, this man who would rescue me if something were to go terribly awry, because tonight I prefer to _live._

"All well is here," he says.

"Good." I stand awkwardly, and he stands awkwardly and we don't move for far too long.

"What's happened?" Cullen asks.

"I just spoke with one Lady Morrigan, who killed a Venatori agent this evening." I glance at a pair of whispering lords as they pass by in low, clacking heels. I guide Cullen further into the corner.

"What house is Lady Morrigan from?" Cullen asks, his eyes following mine into the crowd. "I don't recall any nobles by that name."

"Not a noble. She is Celene's occult advisor in Vivienne's absence." His brow furrows, but I shake my head. I do not wish to speak of apostates today. "There's something going on with Venatori in the Servant's wing."

"I can alert my men - "

"No. I will go. Do you know where Cassandra is?"

He shifts his weight beside me, but nods.

"Can you tell her to gather weapons and meet me there?"

"You need to be careful."

"I know." We sink into a corner behind a table of tiny cakes, and for a moment, the world feels unmoored, dreamy and unreal, where assassins eat undersized deserts, all danger turned sickly sweet. "I had thought to bring Sera and Blackwall as well."

He nods, eyes scanning the ballroom. "Have you checked in with Leliana?"

"That is where I am going."

"Good." His hand tenses on my back, and I'm reluctant to move away. For a split second, I think that this endeavor is indeed one that his soldiers could carry out. Except servants are going to the kitchens and never coming back, and I won't send men to their deaths for nothing if I am here, if magic courses through my veins. Besides, Venatori could means rifts, and I am the only one who can fight a rift. _Only._ I take a deep breath.

"Can I…" I want to ask if I can do anything for him. If I can help him escape the fears that Cole murmured to me in the library, but I don't want to say it out loud. I don't want to make it worse. "Will you...will you save a dance for me?"

"No, thank you."

"Oh." A blush heats my cheeks. I'd stumbled into the words before I knew what I was saying, and it was among the worst questions I could have asked. "I am sorry. I would prefer to avoid dancing anyway. I do not know why I - "

"No, I apologize. I've been rejecting the question automatically. I d-don't have much experience - that is - " He clears his throat, and his cheeks darken to rival his coat. "I'm not one for dancing. The Templars never attended balls."

"Right," I whisper. "I must...I must go to Leliana."

"Inquisitor," he murmurs. The title is formal, but he takes my hand softly, as if it were something precious to hold.

"Commander?" I answer. Our eyes meet, and for a split second, the ballroom dissolves into something sugary and unreal.

"Maker watch over you."

* * *

The kitchens are a mess of dead elves and bloody hor d'oeuvres. I'm glad I haven't had the stomach to sample any of the food, because surely it would be on the floor by now. Their livery bears the heraldry of noble houses, houses that hated them, that kept them low and expendable.

Little people.

How long has it been since I asked Cullen to dance? Just a few skinny minutes ago, I was blushing while these people lay dead.

Sera spits.

"Gaspard's men, perhaps?" Cassandra whispers. Her sword gleams in her hand, and she holds her shield like she means to use it.

"Or Briala's," Blackwall muses.

"No. The servants were working with her," I whisper.

"Surely not all of them. Perhaps there was an argument - "

"These sods were killed with swords," Sera says. "Can't you see that? Swords. And _magic_. Nobody gives little people enough swords and magic to do this."

"Venatori," I say. "Setting up a base of operations. Slaughtering any witnesses."

Sera adjusts her grip on her bow, her strong arms bare where she pushed up the sleeves of her tunic. "Whoever it is, let's fill their squishy heads with arrows. Lots and lots of arrows."

* * *

There is a dead Council emissary in the gardens. His body lays face down on immaculate pavers, limbs splayed as if he were running away. Ivy and lattice cast delicate shadows on his bloody back, on the knife that bearing Gaspard's crest that stands straight in the center of his back.

_The Grand Duke will answer for this,_ Cassandra growls, but I am silent. The dagger is very obvious evidence for this night of double-speak and misdirection, and I do not trust the bare face of this clue.

* * *

"Fancy meeting you here. Slumming in the servants' quarters with the rest of your people for once?"

The hallway is covered in Venatori corpses. It's been a long time - too long - since I stopped to remind myself of the fact that all these assassins are people. Maybe they're little people, like the servants, sent on bloodier errands than making cakes or dusting trophies. But there were so many in these gardens. I wonder how many of them had families to speak of, the kind that write letters, the kind that wait at home.

But in front of me is a living elf, all dark skin and bright eyes and confidence in the face of so very many of the dead.

_Briala._

"Shouldn't you be dancing, Inquisitor? What will the nobility say?" she continues, looking directly at me as if there were nothing else to look at in the world. My own eyes dart around me, but Cassandra touches my back and nods as she and Blackwall move to check for survivors. I stand straighter, let myself be the Herald that Vivienne sees.

"Hello, Ambassador," I say simply. She waits for me to continue, but it's my turn to study. At first glance, she looks very relaxed for a person who just lost a great deal of spies. But her left hand tremors at her side, knuckles betraying what her face hides so well.

"Your reputation for getting results is well-deserved," she says. "You've cleaned this place out. It will take a month to get all the Tevinter blood off the marble." She moves to the balcony, and I am grateful for air that doesn't taste like copper and sweat. "I came down to save or avenge my missing people, but you've beaten me to it."

"I am sorry for their loss."

"As am I." She looks me up and down, her eyes catching on my staff and the anchor that glows on my left hand. "So...the Council of Herald's emissary in the courtyard...That's not your work, is it?"

"Of course not."

"I suspected as much. You may have arrived with the Grand Duke, but you don't seem to be doing his dirty work. I knew he was smuggling in Chevaliers, but killing a Council emissary? Bringing Tevinter assassins into the Palace? Those are desperate acts. Gaspard must be planning to strike tonight."

"Someone is, at any rate." I wait for her to contradict me, to insist on Gaspard's guilt. But she just lifts her brow and nods, the barest of smiles clinging to her pretty lips.

"I misjudged you Inquisitor," Briala says. "You might just be an ally worth having."

"Oh?"

"What could you do with an army of elven spies at your disposal? You should think about it."

And for a moment, I do. I picture a network of Briala's people, lifted from lives where they're cut down in kitchens to make room for assassins who never cared about them at all. I want to see elves empowered to fight. I want to uplift eople with ears that match mine. I glance at Sera, but she curls her lip as if the thought of such an alliance smells worse than the bodies behind us.

"We should get back to the ball," I say, and Briala grins.

* * *

The four of us creep back through gardens, and when we reach the door back to the ball, we check each other for stray blood stains and little rips in our clothes. Dagna's enchantments have held well, and I remember the light in her eye as she told me all the magic that went into making them work. It feels unreal in a way, to hold Cassandra's hands in my hands, to help her clean blood from beneath her fingernails despite her untouched finery. It feels like being in the Fade. This whole night has felt a little like being in the Fade.

"What are you thinking, Inquisitor?" Cassandra whispers, her eyes darting to end of the hallway. Blackwall has gathered our weapons and stashed them in an ornate vase, one that probably cost more than all our fine weapons put together. It has little red lilies painted on it, as if someone knew it would have to match bloody weapons some day.

"I think that dagger is too obvious. And I think someone helped the Venatori enter the Palace tonight."

"Not Gaspard, then. The elf, perhaps? Briala?"

I wince. Even Cassandra, who calls me friend, who has been so fierce about quelling any racism in the Inquisition, does that. Briala is ' _the elf_ ,' first. Before she is a spymaster. Before she is a woman who rose out of poverty. Before she is _Briala._ I shake my head.

"The Venatori killed her people."

"If the Venatori are her people now - "

"No." I bite my lip, scolding myself for my own certainty. Cassandra closes her mouth, and our hands switch places so she is making sure my hands are presentable for the rest of the night.

"Celene certainly did not invite her own assassins. If not Briala or Gaspard, who?"

"Perhaps she does not know their true purpose." I sigh and pull my hands away, wishing they still didn't feel so very dirty. "Perhaps you are right."

"Inquisitor - " She looks at me like there's more to say, but words die on her lips. A bell tolls in the distance, and she sighs.

"To work," I whisper. Cassandra's expression darkens and her shoulders hunch, clear discomfort returning at the thought of returning to this strange upside-down world of taffeta and gold.

* * *

The Duchess Florianne asks me to dance as soon as we return to the ballroom.

My ears haven't yet reacclimated to the glittering timbre of a masquerade full of crystal and voices and false laughter. Fighting was quieter, less unsettling, and my feet don't quite feel like they're touching the ground at all anymore. My hands, outstretched according to half-remember choreography, ache to point at the elven corpses that we left behind.

Perhaps in a moment I will fly away toward the ceiling, a little sparrow unmoored from fancy shoes. Perhaps this will all turn out to be a dream. Perhaps Myrrha is hiding in the shine of a chandelier, her red hair camouflaged by sparkling fire. Perhaps I will wake tomorrow to a truer world, where masks don't hide intentions quite as effectively as they do in this one.

" _It took great effort to arrange tonight's negotiations. Yet one party would use this occasion for the blackest treason."_

I try not to grit my teeth as we twirl, my knees remembering to bend a fraction of a beat too late. She speaks of Gaspard, of strikes, of her brother's betrayal.

I study her carefully, this ice-white duchess, eyes bluer than sky against snow. It all settles over me, slippery and gossamer as lies. Except maybe everything sounds like lies, now. Maybe she's the most honest woman I've met in hours.

" _The attack will come soon_."

She whispers that into my ear, breath tickling the point. I must pretend that my ears do not inform her opinion of me, at least until the music stops.

" _In the royal wing garden, you will find the captain of my brother's mercenaries."_

That last whisper smells like heavy perfume and a trap.

* * *

Applause and gossip usher me from the dance floor. I will my cheeks not to heat, for I did not become a capable dancer in those minutes. Not even close. The applause is for Florianne, and more for decorum than an appreciation of artistry or grace.

A hand grips my arm, and frost flies to my hand.

"Inquisitor. A word."

I let out a sharp breath at the sound of Leliana's voice, and I let her usher me to a corner, where Cassandra, Josephine, and Cullen wait.

"What happened in the servants' quarters?" Cullen asks immediately, his eyes traveling over my skin. "I heard there was fighting."

"Yes. There was."

"I hope you have good news," Josephine says. She cranes her neck as she speaks, scanning the crowd for others to look at. "It appears the peace talks are crumbling."

"There are dead elves all over the kitchens."

"Maker," Cullen breathes. "Do you think - "

"It was Venatori. Both Briala and Florianne blame their presence on Gaspard."

"But you are not convinced," Leliana whispers, her voice singsong and alive at the prospect of such a treacherous puzzle. I shake my head.

"I do not know. A council emissary was murdered with a knife bearing his crest, but it seems to obvious."

"What are your thoughts?"

"I think a lot of people are dead. I think the Grand Duchess pointed me toward the Royal Wing, and trap or not, I think I ought to go."

"You might consider some other options," Leliana says. "If the Empress is immune to warnings, perhaps the night could go another way."

"You're not seriously suggesting we let Celene die," Josephine says.

"I am only suggesting - "

" _No_." I stare right at Leliana, or this version of her that I barely recognize, clad in finery and dripping in the Game. "I came here to save the Empress, and that's what I intend to do."

"Inquisitor - "

"I said, _no_. None of you saw the future that I did. Even if I wanted to stand aside while someone was killed, I would not risk that future coming to pass. And if you had seen it, neither would you." I lift my chin and hold more defiance in my face than Tranquility.

Leliana is the first to look away.

* * *

"You do know this is a trap, don't you?" Sera says. "Because it feels like a trap to me."

I nod. We've freed a would-be double agent for Gaspard from Celene's bedchamber, we've stopped the arranged assassination of one of Briala's own people, and I am feeling much less inclined to ally myself with her revolution. With these three dancing around each other, the only player with enough distance to see a picture that includes the Venatori is Florianne.

"Sword at the ready, then?" Blackwall asks as we turn the corner toward the garden.

I toss my staff to adjust my grip, and Cassandra lifts her shield.

"At your word, Inquisitor," she says.

* * *

"Inquisitor, what a pleasure. I wasn't certain you'd attend."

Florianne stands on the balcony above, and soldiers point arrows at our heads. I count them quickly - we're outnumbered, but not overly so. If I put up a barrier as they loose their arrows, we can fight them off.

The anchor sends shooting pain into my palm, and the air in front of us shimmers. _Lovely_.

"You're such a challenge to read. I wasn't sure if you'd taken my bait."

Sera snorts, muttering under her breath about traps, but I stare right back at Florianne. I am unsure if the comment is a compliment or a reminder of my brand. Either way, I focus on the anchor, let the pain pour power into my hand. I look to Cassandra, and she nods. We all know what that shimmer means.

"Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him."

I lift a brow at her. "So you do know who you're working for."

"But of course."

"Then why do this?" I try to picture this pale creature before me in Corypheus' future, clad in butterflies while her eyes turn red.

"For power, of course," she says, as though Corypheus were part of the Game she plays at fancy parties, a thing to flit around on delicate wings. "In their darkest dreams, no one imagines I would assassinate Celene myself. All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike."

All I can think of are the elven bodies strewn across the kitchen. _This_ is what they died for. For a foolish, pretty thing grabbing for power. I grit my teeth and summon frost to the tip of my staff.

"Kill her," she says, ordering my execution as casually as she ordered the deaths of all those other elves. "And bring me her marked hand. It will make a fine gift for the Master."

She walks away.

The hiss of arrows just barely off a bowstring echoes through this crumbling garden, and I throw up a barrier so they glance away like tossed twigs.

Cassandra holds up her shield beside me, and I hold up my hand to open the rift.

* * *

My feet ache from running in my fancy boots as we sprint through empty halls and abandoned bedchambers. A demon broke my mask, and I'm sure my hair no longer holds its carefully arranged curls.

I don't much care about curls or masks at the moment. I care about making sure an agent of Corypheus doesn't spill her cousin's blood in the name of the Elder One. I care about escaping this bizarre world, about getting the smell of perfume out of my nose. I care about escaping this place with my life.

We did indeed find the captain of Gaspard's mercenaries in the garden. It seems Gaspard _had_ planned on killing Celene tonight. _How many assassins are we looking for?_ Sera wondered. I wonder the same thing. This dance between Gaspard, Celene, and Briala feels clumsy and short-sighted now, moves made by people too focused on tiny movements and little lies to see the fervor that spins around them.

We reach the vestibule breathlessly, Blackwall favoring his left side and Sera with a large, bleeding gash above her eye. She spits blood on the marble, shaking her head at the taste.

"Can you two find a healer?" I murmur as we climb the stairs.

"Aye," Blackwall says. "Stitches is lurking by the trophy room."

"Good." I glance at Sera, and she's cursing under her breath, her lip curled into snarl. "Cassandra - "

"I am with you, Inquisitor." I look to her, still wearing her golden mask, tilted eyes bright and angry.

* * *

Cullen clings to the edge of the ballroom. When he sees us, he runs over. He puts a hand on my right arm, pulling my hand up immediately. It's swelling, I know. Broken, maybe. I'd hardly noticed.

He says something, but I hardly notice that, either.

"Where is Florianne?" I ask.

"What?"

"The Duchess. I must have a talk with her."

"Inquisitor, what happened?"

"She's going to kill the Empress. I am going to stop her." The statement should feel laughable, but it's starting to feel like the only choice, like nothing else is even the slightest bit possible. He shakes his head, but I can't pay him any attention.

"Aderyn, there's no time."

And yet, there is only one way to proceed.

_Maker guide my footsteps,_ I pray. It's selfish to pray now, after so many weeks of faithlessness. The words feel shaky and unreliable, anyway. Everything that led me here was an accident, but I must stand tall anyway. I must walk with steady legs anyway.

Celene stands on the dais about the dance floor, sparkling from head to toe in blue and gold. Gaspard, Briala, and Florianne stand below, whispering and smiling out lies layered on lies from behind their fine masks.

I walk bare-faced toward them, head held high, brand naked for all to see. My mark flares, the aftershocks of a closed rift birthing green light that flashes against crystal chandeliers.

A hush falls on the court, and I keep moving. From the corner of my eye, I see Cullen pushing through crowds to keep up with me, see the flash of his sword coming free from its scabbard.

"Your grace," I call, as if titles matter any more. All four of them look to me, the Duke and the Duchess and the Empress and the Spymaster. In this moment, both hands hurting, I let go of the crowd. I let go of their opinions about dancing or shoes or masks or hair. My face is streaked with a blur of gold paint long past it's usefulness. My boots are speckled with blood. "What did you say in the garden? You just needed to keep me out of ballroom long enough to strike."

Murmurs skitter between hoop skirts ruffled sleeves, but I look right at Florianne. She looks anywhere but at me.

"Inquisitor," she says. I wonder if she prays behind that silver mask. I wonder if she is like me, if she calls on the Maker when she needs to scrounge for bravery, when she needs to fill herself up. Or maybe she calls to the Elder One, except that Corypheus is not a god. Not yet.

I stand my ground in the middle of the dance floor. It doesn't matter that the others stand above me, looking down. It doesn't matter that I cannot dance in three quarter time. From here, surrounded by all this empty space, I can _see._

"You have clearly been through an ordeal," she says, her speech less lilting than it was on the dance floor, or presiding over my presumed murder. "Perhaps I could offer you a bedchamber to lie down in."

"Perhaps if you could find one that does not contain dead Tevinter cultists or assassinated council emissaries, I might accept." I lift a brow at Florianne, and any hint of a smile is gone from her face. "Tonight, you have framed your brother for assassination, invited Tevinter cultists into the palace, presided over the slaughter of dozens of servants, and ordered your archers to cut my hand off my corpse as a trophy. You did all of this so you could murder the Empress.

"I will not allow it."

I turn my palm upward, let the anchor shine. Silence hangs in sugary air, and a world of masks wait impassively while for something to happen. Florianne's arrest, perhaps. Mass chaos, perhaps. My assassination, perhaps. Some responsible human come to cart away the hysterical elf, perhaps. Florianne steps back.

"This is very entertaining. But you do not imagine anyone believes you wild stories?" She turns to Celene, who is still and fine as a statue.

"That will be for a judge to decide."

I try not to visibly relax. _Stand tall. Be unnerving._ I won't be small. In this moment, for these few minutes, I will be _invincible._

I will not kneel.


	30. Clumsy Footsteps

 

The Fade _spins_.

There is a ball in the Winter Palace, and all the dancers are puppets. Their strings pull wooden joints, turning in perfect unison under the sparkle of chandeliers.

I stand in the center of them all. They look to me, and away, to each other and then the splendor. It's an eight count of glances, and I hear Josie's voice over it all. _One, two, three, four..._ Each face is blank and wooden and covered in a golden mask, all inscrutable to themselves and each other.

My heart pounds.

I turn, and the ballroom is covered in blood, the blood of elves like me. They still walk the edges of the dance floor, now empty save for them. The cakes on their trays are shaped like knives, and they sneak bloody tastes with over-the-shoulder glances and guilty looks. They leave red footprints on the ground, born of their opened throats.

My heart pounds.

"Lethallan."

_Solas._

I turn, and he stands behind me, shining in finery like I've never seen. Cloth of gold joins in a seams my eye can't quite make out, but he looks more comfortable now than I have ever seen.

"Dance with me," he says. Music plays from instruments that float on air, strings sounding with no master. The puppets reappear, and we stand in the center of them all, their skirts swirling in perfect hoops. Josie's voice echoes, softer now. _Five, six, seven, eight…_

"No."

There's blood on my hands, mine and otherwise. I wipe my itching palms on my skirts, but it won't come off. The evidence of the blood shed this night is unavoidable, but Solas simply turns his head as if there is nothing to see.

"What troubles you, lethallan?"

"Can't you see it?" I spread my arms, and the ballroom fills with standing corpses. But when he looks around, he does not frown.

"See what? Political gambits, broken promises, half-truths? It is a palace full of motivation, and motivation is the great driver of history, no? It is _intoxicating_."

"Our people were killed."

"Our people? The Inquisition. No, lethallan - "

" _Venavis_ , Solas." The elvhen word comes to my tongue like instinct, some half-remembered artifact from a day I forgot. Perhaps I learned it from a book long ago, or from Solas himself. But it stays his words regardless. " _Our people_. The elven servants in the kitchens, killed in their own city for the fragile crime of being in the way."

"I am surprised, lethallan. You and I have little in common with those elves."

"What?"

"I am an elven apostate from a small village. You are a Circle mage. What do you and I have in common with those servants except our ears? That is a thin point of comparison, is it not?" He steps toward me, and I shake my head.

The ballroom melts away. We are in a blurry Denerim, all the buildings too tall for reality, everything smeared like a painting ruined before it had a chance to dry. Half-composed people mill around us, their pointed ears the only sharp parts of their appearances.

" _This_ is where I come from," I say. "I had a mother here. I might have had a whole life here. I remember a big tree, other pointy-eared children. I remember my mother's face, and I know that she is almost certainly dead. For this place was purged by humans during the Blight, and then more elves were enslaved besides. And then the Archdemon came to kill even more besides, and that's not even taking into account to all the other hazards of being an elf in Denerim.

"These people are not strangers to me, Solas. They are not an abstraction. They are _my_ people. Where did you come from that you can afford to think of _us_ as so separate from you? What circumstances would have saved you from their deaths but accidents of geography and magic?"

"You are angry." He looks at me like my indignation is a curiosity, but I stand tall in Ferelden boots, the anchor shining on my hand, giving light to the brand on my forehead.

"Of course I am angry."

"And yet, being elven once meant more than helpless masses. The elves of today remember Halamshiral, but that was but a shadow of Arlathan, of the empire we built. Why ally yourself with a ghost of a ghost of what we are?"

"How can you pine for some nearly forgotten empire when we are suffering now? _Ma banal las halamshir var vhen._ You do not live in Arlathan. You live here. You live now. You are the one chasing ghosts."

I spread my wings and take flight, fluttering through the air. The ballroom reappears, and I circle to the ceiling, up and up to the open air, into the sky above Halamshiral.

 _Arlathan._ It is nothing more than a cruel joke.

"Little sparrow?"

I turn around, and I am in the soft world I once shared with Myrrha. Light catches in her fire-red hair, her ears pointed, her eyes bluer than sunny skies. My heart calms at the sight of her, and my lungs fill with steady breaths.

"Myrrha." I shouldn't want to be here. I shouldn't be here at all.

"You are angry, little sparrow."

"Of course I am angry."

"The wolf frightens me," she whispers. "He has been in the Fade a long time."

"He has forgotten what is real."

"Yes." She steps toward me, and I step towards her. "I have missed you," she whispers.

"I will not forget what is real."

* * *

I sit up, clawing at the silk wrapped around my neck. _I will not forget what is real._ Florianne and Gaspard are both in custody. That is real. Briala and Celene are working together to lead Orlais. That is real. Solas' wide statements about the grandeur of Arlathan are little more than show, something to distract the eye like a mask, a half truth used to obscure his connection with the dead.

I force my breath to come slow.

Ghilan ate a hole a rug of this opulent guest room. That is real, too, and so are the curtains she tore off the windows, and the pillows she gathered into a slobbery pile in the center of the room.

Early morning light kisses the room with blue and gray. Ghilan herself walks to me on tentative feet, sniffing at the bandage on my hand. Solas mended the tiny, fractured bones last night, but my fingers are still swollen and bruised.

"It's all right, ma vhenan," I whisper, giving her a scratch behind the ear. "My hand is just fine."

She whines at me, unconvinced.

"Oh, so you don't believe me when I say that I am fine anymore, either?" I lift a brow at her, and she barks. "You and every other living being in Thedas, it seems."

She huffs and turns away, running a tight circle around the room. I sigh, but I smile at her, too. I'm fairly certain that Josephine is going to lecture me about the cost of her destruction, but I can't bring myself to be anything but grateful that my Ghilan is right here, tearing up carpets and worrying over my hurts.

"How would you feel about a walk, Ghilan?" I ask her. "I will tell you all about the ball on the way." She barks and wags her short tail, and I can't imagine anything merrier than her.

* * *

The gardens are gray and dim in the early morning. Stone benches sit among curling vines, and lattice archways cast soft shadows on the ground. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck, dipping my chin into the thick wool to hide from the dew and the chill.

Ghilan bounds away, and I follow slowly. Tender footsteps are kinder on my aching feet, though I'm grateful to be back in my well-worn traveling boots. They're sturdy shoes, good Ferelden cobbling, and they make me feel awake.

I turn a corner, letting the fingers of my unbandaged left hand trail through climbing ivy. Before me is a statue of Andraste, surrounded by candles. A man kneels in front of her. His hands are clasped in front of him, and he presses his knuckles to his forehead as he sings the Chant.

_Cullen._

"...The Old Gods will call to you, from their ancient prisons will they sing. Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts, on blacken'd wings - "

My boot scrapes against the ground. He leaps to his feet and turns like a well-rested fighter, even though he must be at least as tired as I am.

"Addie," he breathes. Tension gives way to relief, and we close the distance between us. My marked hand brushes his arm, and he takes my bandaged one in his own. He holds it for a moment like he might kiss my bruised fingers, delicate as an Orlesian lord asking a lady to dance. Except that none of them were delicate with him last night. "How does it feel?"

"I've had much worse, Cullen," I reassure him. But he frowns, deep lines betraying his exhaustion. Cole's voice echoes in my mind. _Cullen is afraid_. "Did you sleep at all?"

"A little. Did - did you?"

"Yes." I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, trying to banish any lingering anger from my argument in the Fade. It would be a long story to tell Cullen. _Remember how we are both mages? Well, we are also both dreamers, and we had a quarrel in the Fade and now I am irritable._ _Do not trouble yourself, however, sweet Commander. I am just fine._ And right now, he is what is real, and I will not forget what is real. "A-are you all right? I know at the ball - with those people - you were…"

"What? Oh. You mean..." He blushes and looks away, searching the sky for anything to look at but me. "I...yes. I am fine."

"I was worried for you."

"You were fighting for your life, and you were worried for me with a few overly...aggressive...nobles in masks and heeled shoes?" He laughs, a bitter, small thing. "You must think me a terrible fool."

"No. Of course not." I look at him, and I hope he can see that I understand, that I am also a person uncomfortable with attention, that I have memories that I'd rather not remember. "I...I know that you have cause. I know there are things I - I only meant…"

He studies me with those lovely amber eyes that I fell for when I was a skinny girl not prone to crushes. _The color of your eyes is a rare thing indeed. I'm sure you hear that quite a lot._ And it is a rare thing here, though perhaps not where we both come from. His eyes are a Ferelden color, something he carries with him from home. _He_ is a rarity, though, this man who looks at me like he might not mind if I admire him at all.

"I only meant that I know you are not a fool," I murmur. He takes my marked hand in his, and I squeeze my fingers tight. He guides me to a secluded bench, overlooked by Andraste's candle-lit eyes. We sit together, watching Ghilan as she continues to sprint circles through the gardens. _What it must feel like to be that free_ , I think. Except Ghilan has been through hardship, too. She walked up that mountain with me, she lost her old companions to the snow. And yet, she runs. _And yet._

"I do not often speak of what happened to me when Kinloch Hold fell," Cullen whispers. I look up at him, but he looks to Andraste, to the god he worships so faithfully. "I felt that I had lost you, and I had been thinking of little else. I had...I had all these scenarios in my head, like a lost chess match I could have played differently. I imagined telling you about Jowan's blood magic before you helped him. I thought I might have brought you evidence, I imagined you would believe me. And if...if I couldn't stop you, then I imagined all the ways I might have saved you after you'd been caught. I imagined escaping in the night, th-thought we might go to the village where I grew up. I thought...I suppose I thought a lot of things, and all of them were foolish, because I couldn't take back what had already been done."

A lump forms in my throat. I've thought similar things since the Breach, since I walked the Fade and thus reestablished my connection to it. But I didn't want to examine those thoughts, didn't want to hold them or turn them over, for fear that they'd turn into something real and put cracks in the pull between the two of us. The thought of him, young and isolated, soaking in those thoughts I've been too cowardly to think...I squeeze his hand again.

"When the Tower fell, the demons knew what I'd been thinking about. They..." His voice is thick and reluctant, the story sticky with years of silence. "They used my memories of you, my stupid wishes for a different future, to torture me. They offered to restore your magic if I would just stay with them. And then they pretended to be you. They offered me false world after false world, worlds where you were whole and we were...w-worlds where you wanted to be with me in the Tower and outside it, worlds w-where…"

He trails off, and now he stares at the ground. Disgust paints new lines around his curled lip, and he pulls his hand away from as he hunches his shoulders.

"If it would make you more comfortable - " The words flow off my tongue quietly and reflexively, but I swallow the rest of the statement. This moment is not about comfort. It is not about assuaging of my awkwardness around raw emotion. "I am sorry," I whisper. "That is not what I meant to say."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but he sits straighter, too. His customary furs sit loosely over the wool shirt he's wearing instead of armor, but he looks big as he's ever been right now.

"I knew the demons weren't real. I knew they weren't you," he says. "I never lost track of that, not for a moment. B-but after...after I wasn't sure _anything_ was real. Not for a long time. And it was worse when...it was worse when I was in r-r-romantic situations." He grimaces at stutter. I know now that he hates when he does, I know it frustrates him when his tongue won't obey his mind. "Whenever a woman showed interest, I thought I was back there. I thought it couldn't be r-real."

"And you felt that last night."

"No. More like it reminded of feeling that way. It's not exactly a comfortable thing to remember, but I swear I am better than I was." He takes another deep breath, and stares at his hands, which shake ever so slightly. "In some ways it's easier without lyrium. The dreams are harder, but I...I know what's real a little better without it."

We sit in silence as the sun kisses the rooftops of Halamshiral, yellows and reds invading our early morning blues. Ghilan brings Cullen a stick to throw, and he obliges, over and over until she's panting and tired. _Do you ever forget that I am real?_ I want to ask. _Does your racing heart ever turn sickly like mine sometimes does when we kiss?_

"I...I know what is real," I whisper. _I will not forget what is real_. I had not thought of what a luxury it would be to claim that, to not be trapped in old nightmares rather than Solas' silly dreams. "I do not have that. But I...I know what it feels like to have cause to...I..."

I bite my cheek until I taste blood on my tongue. I didn't meant to bring this up. I didn't mean to start speaking these truths. My stomach turns, because I won't be able to take this story back after I tell it. I won't be able to bottle it back up, won't be able to keep him from knowing that sometimes his exquisite lips throw me toward memories of tongues I preferred not to taste.

If we were in the Fade, I wouldn't have to find the words for this. I could just look at the ground before us, and he would see what I see. He would know what I know. It could be quick and easy, free from clumsy sentences and nervous mouths, and we would both know in an instant what was once real. Except maybe this is better, maybe the air in my lungs makes this confession matter more because I must search my vocabulary for the truth.

"I suppose you might have guessed some of this. Or Leliana might have told you. I do not know." I begin, and I know immediately those words are cowardly and wrong.

"Addie - "

"No, that's...that's not what I meant to say." My cheeks heat shamefully, and my heart races harder than it has all night. I fought for my life last night, I faced down the entire Imperial Court, I took away a piece of Corypheus' red future, I did important work. And yet, this is the thing that brings me to my knees. This is the thing that feels most likely to break me.

"A...a few years ago, there were...there were apprentices who wanted to…" I curl my shoulders inward, and I close my eyes. "They thought they were practicing. For when they had a true partner. They told me to be quiet, and I was. I preferred not to, but I did everything they told me to."

Cullen's jaw tenses, and his hands shake worse, like Irving's used to sometimes after his footsteps grew shorter and he couldn't always stop his head from swinging back and forth.

"I was...I did not hate it. I thought about it a lot, over and over and over, like a loop I could not escape. I was obsessed with the notion that I might have fought back when I was younger. But I knew it was not logical to spend so much time thinking about it. And I knew it was not logical to fight back, because it would be over faster if I did not." My voice cracks, and I swallow hard, clear my throat of fear. "It was like there was a gap, something missing in me, like a finger or toe, and I could not stop looking at the place where it used to be. But I was not sad. I was not hurt. I did not feel anything at all. I...I still sometimes think it's a silly thing for me to worry about."

"Your scars," he whispers.

"No. It was nothing so violent as that." I wipe a stray tear off my cheek, and I itch at my stuffing nose. "That was the Templars. Punishment when they caught us after a warning had already been issued. I had abandoned Templar-assigned duties to attend to apprentice mages, and my insubordination had to be punished."

Cullen curses under his breath, and he clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. I take my hand, the anchor glowing softly into the morning light, and I place it over his. But I can't look at his eyes. I can't know if there's revulsion sliding on his features. I can't know if he sees me as something horrific now, a body marred by monsters until I was twisted into a sad, broken thing.

But he unclenches his fist to hold my hand, and that feels safe. Steadying. Those apprentices never held my hand.

"I...I really only meant to say that I know you are not a fool." I take a shaky breath, and I wish with everything I have that my eyes weren't itchy with tears. "No. That's wrong. I also - I also want you to know that I don't want to hide anymore. I don't want to worry about what you'll think when you find out something new about my past, or the other way around. This night has been so full of people lying to each other, and hiding behind every half truth they can find, and I want…"

He presses his lips to my forehead, to my _brand._ My breath catches, and I grip his hand harder, until I'm sure my fingers are leaving deep impressions on his hand. But I don't pull away. I lean into his lips, into the soft feel of his skin on on the scarred sunburst that took ten years from my life. The one that he was there to see formed, the one that he wishes he'd had the ability to prevent.

"I love you, Aderyn Surana." The whispers land softly on my skin, and the syllables are divine, perfect, more beautiful than any music anyone has ever danced to. "I do not intend to stop. Not for anything you could tell me."

I take deep breaths of morning air. I close my eyes, so that all the world is just Cullen Rutherford, just his arms around me and his chest beneath my cheek and his smell filling every inch of me. We are in Orlais, surrounded by masks and lies and foreign finery. And yet, in this moment, I am _home_.

"I have _always_ loved you, Cullen Rutherford. Always." And that feels like the truth, even though I'm not at all certain I was capable of loving anyone for a third of my life. But sitting here debating foolishness with the boy I fell in love with so foolishly all those years ago, it's hard to imagine that love wasn't always there. It was simply waiting for me to be able to see it again, like a treasure tucked away just out of reach. _Always_.

I look up at him, and he doesn't look at me like I'm a broken thing, something twisted by monsters. He looks at me like I am _extraordinary_.

Our lips meet in the morningtime.

He shifts so I slide into his lap. My heart races, pounding against my ribcage like rushing boots on marble, but I am not afraid.

My hand cups his jaw, and his hands circle my waist. It feels so different from the first time I kissed him, that rushing place before the Breach, when I thought the fates and the gods were pressing us together. That night, we were two pieces of a story that _must_ be, not a story that we, the two of us, _willed_ to be. But the man whose breath feeds my lungs is a man that I have chosen. He is a man I might have walked away from. He is a man who might have walked away from me.

And yet here we are, lips and tongues feeding a buzzing warmth in my very center. He might have been a Templar, but he is not. I might have been a coward, a simple tool against the rifts. But I am not. I am a leader who thinks and feels; I am a mage who listens, an elf who lives, a woman who _wants._

I _want_ , and that is _real_.

"Addie," he whispers. His thumb traces the curve of my body over my tunic, resting just beneath my breast. My breath comes short and quick, heady and spinning like steps on a dancefloor, steps I've mastered by magic or instinct or something like it.

"Yes?" I open my eyes, and all I see is him, amber-eyed and perfect, a curl free on his forehead.

"Last night, you asked me to dance."

I laugh, small and breathy, and a blush creeps onto my cheeks. "It was a foolish question."

"It was a perfect question. I was a fool to let the opportunity pass."

I rest my face against his and close my eyes, so my whispers land on his waiting ears. "By the end of the night, I had a broken hand, blood on my shoes, and Vivienne's gold powder smeared all over my face. I was hardly in a state to dance."

"You were radiant."

I take a deep breath, and he stands up, his strong arms sweeping me with him. I blush as we both stare at our feet, trying to arrange them into something less tangled. But then he kisses my brand again, puts his hand on my waist as he holds my other in his.

For one shuffling moment, the only sound is our feet and breath in the garden. But then he hums out a melody I haven't heard since Kinloch Hold, something the apprentices and Templars borrowed from Ferelden villages and spring festivals. We had words for this tune in the Alienage, too, and I don't know if that came with me from my birthplace or other apprentices who came from there as well.

I sing the words softly, elven lyrics I do not understand. There is a part of me that is guilty, for this is a silly romantic indulgence, and there are so many who will never have these indulgences again. and yet, my voice makes a sweet, simply harmony with his, and our feet make clumsy boxes in unison.

 _I love you, Aderyn Surana,_ he said.

Perhaps it is not so bad to cling to this rough-edged perfection that feels so very  _real_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey. This was a soft chapter for plot, but I thought these two deserved something mostly for them :) I hope you're all doing super well, and that you all take opportunities to dance really, really badly. 
> 
> Be well <3


	31. The Very Secret Diary of Carver Hawke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably not the chapter you were expecting after...eight months. But. You know. Sometimes you make choices. Sometimes they are good. Sometimes they are like this.
> 
> I'm sorry/you're welcome. Mostly sorry, though.

 

*******

**~ _Carver~_**

*******

**Day 1:** Pack up and head out for the Western Approach with Inquisition scouts and Bull’s Chargers. Very smelly lot. Arguably smellier than Wardens. Barrels of booze, though. Feels like home.

 

**Day 3:** Cold snap is...concerning. River very frozen. Sister rolled around in the snow. Spent rest of day complaining of wet underclothes. Very annoying.

 

**Day 6:** Caught staring by Scout Harding. Mumbled something about enjoying the Dales. Then tripped over a corpse. It was on fire.

Must be more subtle.

 

**Day 7** :  Witnessed something disturbing today. The Iron Bull is flirting with Dorian. A lot. _Aggressively_.

Seems to be working.

~~_Lessons?_ ~~

 

**Day 9:** Was called “Birdie” today. By Scout Harding.

Didn’t mind, really.

 

**Day 13:** Very big headache today. Calling very loud.

Caja and Alistair have started writing lyrics and singing it out loud. Again. Sister joined in, even though she’s not even a Warden. Scout Harding liked her lyrics best.

Sister not even into women.

Not amusing.

 

**Day 14:** V. bad nightmares last night. Darkspawn. Deep Roads. Red Lyrium. Always ends with an ogre and Bethany. Never going to end. Too much taint in me for it to end.

Harding on watch when I gave up sleeping and took a walk.

Her name is Lace.

 

**Day 15:** _Lace._ She gets more freckles in the sun.

 

**Day 18:** Big rift today. Shiny hand would have been v. useful, but she’s at a party.

Wish I could go to a party. Maybe Lace would dance at a party.

 

**Day 19:** Calling _really fucking loud_.

Caja and Alistair in next tent, just fucking. Also loudly.

Dorian and Iron Bull _also_ fucking. Maybe? Or just killing each other. Lessons starting to seems like bad plan.

 

**Day 21:** Letter from Inquisitor today. Ball over, war over, Empress alive. Big celebration in camp.

Found sister crying when was already drunk. Sister drunk too? She misses Beth.

Miss the first Bethany. She’d know what to say to Jessa. I just sit. Wonder if should just go to the Deep Roads to off myself after all.

Lace touches my hand on way back to tent. Want to kiss her. Keep walking instead.

Definitely need lessons.

 

**Day 22:** Arrived in Desert. Inquisitor should arrive before next ritual at Ritual Tower.

Sand is very hot.

Not amusing.

 

**Day 26:** Found entrance to Deep Roads. Not far from keep we took. Punched wall, wanted to answer Calling so badly. Knuckles bleeding. Alistair and Caja not tempted?

 

**Day 27:** Lace noticed my hand. Had mage heal it. Not sister.

Called me Birdie. I even laughed.

 

**Day 29:** Inquisitor arrived.

Much celebration.

Much applause.

 

Brand reminds me of Kirkwall. Gives me the creeps.

 

**Day 31:** Worse than we thought. Wardens sacrificing Wardens to become slaves to Tevinter Prick.

Worried about brothers and sisters at Adamant. Oghren very drunk. Might think it’s a game. Get his head chopped off. Nathaniel very serious. Might forget to play along enough to not get killed. Velanna very bitchy. Also probably going to get herself killed.

Sigrun my favorite. Miss her. Always reminded me of Merrill. Miss her too.

Sigrun could give lessons. Very patient. Better not be dead.

 

**Day 32:** Volunteered to go ahead to Adamant with the scouts while rest of Inquisition goes back to Skyhold to fetch an army. Sister teased me about it. Don’t care. Much.

 

**Day 34:**

**_Lace_** **.**

Did not need lessons.


	32. A Looming Fortress

 

 

My wings catch magic like the wind, flickering through wisps of green and dark as the raw Fade mingles with the night sky. 

The wolf is below me. I can feel him, his paws on reflected sand, staring at me from this mirror of a desert. We’re on our way back to Skyhold, back to Cullen and warm arms and dancing in the night. I want to picture what our life will be like when we get there, want to construct a future of just us two, now that I’ve said  _ love _ and he said  _ love _ and we finally gave voice to feelings we’d long held at arm’s length. 

Except there’s a mark on my hand, anchoring me to this fight, the one that’s going to call me back to deserts and Magisters and a no-doubt early death. And all there is out here is sand and dreams and Solas, watching the glow I wear now even on the tip of my left wing. 

He’s been trying to corner me ever since the ritual, because he saw me push back on Erimond’s magical pull on the anchor. It had felt much like Corypheus’ pull in Haven, but Erimond is weaker than his master and I am stronger than I was. This mark feels more a part of me, now. And this time, kneeling was not in question, not for a second.

He is not going to move on. Not tonight. 

“Aneth ara, lethallan,” Solas says as my feet hit the sand. He stand beside me, ears pointed and brow lifted, every inch of him the sharp elf that lives only in the Fade.

“Hello, Solas.” I stretch my fingers, and the anchor flashes. His eyes flash with reflected light.

“You wear it well. Better than I had ever imagined.”

“You do not sound overly pleased.”

“Pleased that you have grown so accustomed to the presence of something that you do not understand, something that causes you pain? Perhaps not.”

“I showed you what Corypheus said to me. The anchor is permanent. There is little use in agonizing over it, and there seems to be much use in mastering it.”

“Perhaps.” Solas glances to the far away horizon, toward Adamant Fortress, back in the direction where we came. “Certainly it cannot be removed at the moment. Not while Corypheus lives.”

I let those words float into the Fade, for I cannot think of a world without Corypheus. If I do, I will dream of nothing but a house in a small village, one where no one bats an eye at an elven mage and a human man living a quiet life in a small house by a lake. Life would be nothing but books and tea and soft things, with no reason to fight at all. 

“It is pretty, certainly. But not a little boring, if I had to give an opinion.”

My eyes follow Solas’ to the little scene I painted from stray stars and floating grains of sand, a tiny scene of myself and Cullen, surrounded by books and fires and Ferelden countryside. It’s a wispy, thing, a dream I drew unintentionally from faded wishes I stole from Cullen. I wave my hand and it’s gone, banished as if it never were. 

“I did not ask for your thoughts,” I say, but he does not apologize. I refuse to embarrassed. If he must follow me through dreamland, let him see that I dream of soft things. Let him remember that he named me a librarian, not a warrior, while were were standing similarly in the Fade. “There is much else to talk about, I suppose, though I am unsure why they could not wait until morning.”

“It will be loud in the morning. There will be many others vying for your attention, and a lowly apostate may steal a moment of privacy with the Inquisitor here.” He looks at me, but I let that go, too, because I don’t want to talk to him about anything that we can’t say in front of the others. Not about myself, not about Myrrha, and certainly not about whatever future I’ve been dreaming of with a golden haired man I left in Skyhold. “Besides -- did you truly want to flit aimlessly in the Fade all night, sparrow?”

“Were you going to while away your evening waiting for me, wolf?”

“I am patient.”

I sigh. “And what questions did you have for the dread Inquisitor, Solas the Lowly Apostate?”

“Come. We should speak elsewhere.” Solas trots away on soft paws, and I take wing. By all rights, my tiny wings shouldn’t carry me as quickly as his loping strides, but I keep up all the same. We cross nighttime deserts, stars filtering through the raw Fade, tiny pinpricks streaked with the suggestion of constellations. 

Adamant Fortress is on the horizon, stark and stony against sandy hills.  _ So far _ . 

“I see it, Solas,” I say, my legs standing beside his legs atop a hill.

“Adamant. It is large and crawling with elite soldiers.”

“And demons. And probably Corypheus and an archdemon.”

“Indeed.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he’s waiting for me to say what we both already know. This is a fortress, and it will not be taken by the Bull’s Chargers and a few of my more violent friends.

“We will have to bring siege equipment,” I murmur. “And an army.”

“Your Templar will have that well in hand.”

My eyes flicker to his, and Solas simply lifts his brow, waiting for whatever response I might have. To tell him that Cullen is not  _ mine _ , perhaps. That he is not a Templar, perhaps. Except that first contradiction would make a liar of me, and Solas already knows the truth of the second. 

“You want me to tell you I would prefer to leave him home.”

“I want no such thing. I want you to know there is little point in employing a military commander if you are unwilling to order him to lay siege to a castle.”

I purse my lips. He’s pushing, and I find myself wanting to push back.  _ Why do you care? What is your stake in this? Why do you bristle at the thought of my quiet dreaming? _ Except I know the answers to those questions, and they are all the same. 

_ Pride _ . Pride and jealousy. 

I prefer not to hear those sentiments out loud.

#

The march back across Orlais a long one. The aftermath of civil war is still strewn across the Dales, humans killing humans on land where they once slaughtered elves. Here, plains stretch from horizon to horizon, interrupted by soft hills and winding rivers. It’s a foreign landscape for me, so different from the dense city I barely remember or the Tower by the lake or the mountains that have begun to feel like home. And if I have seen storm-battered coastlines and deep swamps and vast deserts now, I have not seen much of golden grasses, nor smelled wildflowers much like these. 

It’s lovely. And but for the bodies and the graves and the castle that waits for me in the place where the sky is kept, I might be reluctant to leave.

But my feet move quick and sure beside Caja and Alistair’s, heroes I am glad to know. My Ghilan and her Paragon wrestle up ahead, two war dogs who haven’t forgotten to play. 

“Chin up, my dear,” he says to her, his eyes merry and her brow full of scowls. 

“If we could get somewhere with fewer pits full of burning bodies and less sky, I might take you up on that.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad here. It’s just like old times. Terrible dreams, some darkspawn, impending doom. No decent cheeses to speak of. Only difference is this time Zevran and Sten are sharing a single, enormous body, and they think Shale might be fun in bed.”

Caja turns her chin toward all that sky and laughs. She’s merry and scowling in turn, an abrasive hero fickle in her moods. Sometimes I see flickers of what she must have been like when the Archdemon flew over Ferelden, hear in the cadence of her banter how different it must have felt to travel with her. I do not think she and Cassandra would have gotten along very well at all, and I’m a little ashamed that this comforts me.

“Who are these people?” I ask. 

“Zevran is an assassin,” Alistair says. “Very scary fellow. Very... _ aggressive _ , if you catch my meaning.”

“He tried to kill me,” Caja clarifies. “Also bed me.”

“I beat him to it,” Alistair whispers loudly behind a hand. 

“He is a scoundrel and a very good friend,” Caja says, her eyes glancing with wistful performance toward the horizon. 

“Sounds like it,” I say. I let my mouth quirk at the corner, and Alistair grins. He’s gotten used to my slight facial expressions, I think, and he takes great joy in putting a discernable smile on my face. “And Sten?”

“Sten is a Qunari general.”

“Well. Not anymore,” Alistair says. “Now he’s...Arishok?  _ The _ Arishok?  _ An _ Arishok? I’m not sure what the grammar is.”

“ _ The _ Arishok? You traveled with the leader of the Qunari?”

“Well, one of them. There are three, right? Or is it four? I can never remember.”

“Three. A Triumvirate,” I clarify. “And he is very amorous as well, I take it?”

Caja snorts, and Alistair chuckles. “No, no,” she says. “He’s just really big.”

“And very fond of cookies,” Alistair adds. “And judging by the Bull’s waistline, I suspect he shares a certain fondness for sweets.”

“Ah. Understood.” I shift my staff on my back, and I look to Dorian and Bull, who are currently half wrestling as they walk in front of us. They’ve fallen so easily into this teasing, open thing. They share a tent.  _ Loudly _ . They flirt, too, and all this despite the complications of their homelands and prejudices, and the difficulties that are all their own. My chest aches with jealousy I’d rather not admit to, because flirting and teasing and sharing a tent are things I will never slip so easily into, and I don’t want to wonder what the last months might have been like if they were. Better, perhaps. Less lonely.  _ Happier _ . And it wasn’t if I didn’t  _ want _ . 

“Tell me of Shale,” I say, swallowing my thoughts of Cullen and waiting and struggles. “Is he very sassy? Possessing of a very well-groomed mustache?”

“Oh, she  _ is _ sassy.”

“Also large, though.”

“And made of rock.”

“Now you’re making fun of me. The gullible former Tranquil, unable to discern humor from fact.” I look from one to the other of them, their grins growing wider and wider.

“Never dream of it, salroka. Shale is a golem.”

“Sassiest one I ever met,” Alistair adds. I lift a brow in their direction, and they both laugh.

“Met many golems, have you?”

“Shockingly, yes. Most don’t have much personality. Lots of smashing arms. Much killing.” Alistair waves his arms as if smashing imaginary foes, and Caja knocks into him with her shoulder until he stumbles and stops. 

“Met another that seemed like a good guy the one time,” she says. “And being a golem is complicated business. We shouldn’t make too much fun.”

Alistair frowns for a moment, and they share a look full of the knowledge of those complications. I’ve known Alistair just long enough to know the only things that make his brow furrow so seriously are either absurdly minor or very serious. I let that pass between them, and allow whatever complications they’ve learned of remain quiet and undisturbed in their past.

“I think I should like to meet your Shale someday.”

“She’d like you,” Caja says. “You’re shiny.” Alistair chuckles, and he slips his arm around her shoulders in a way that suggests he’s done the same motion thousands of times before. 

“Oi! Bastard Prince Your Highnessness!” Sera’s voice rings over the plains from behind us, and we three turn to see her walking with Varric and Hawke. “This nutter says you know  _ werewolves _ .”

“I said he  _ healed _ werewolves,” Varric clarifies, and Hawke laughs. “Not that he got very acquainted with any of them.”

“Are you telling our stories without us again?” Alistair shouts back. 

“Only because you’re a lousy storyteller!”

Alistair scowls in mock fury and stomps toward them, and I move to follow. But Caja touches my arm, and I hang back.

“While we have a moment,” Caja whispers, her eyes still tracking Alistair as he moves away. “I have a question. About Morrigan.”

“Oh?”

“Do you...do you remember if she had a child with her?” 

“Her son. Keiran.”

“Keiran,” Caja says, as if tasting the word. She looks at Alistair, scowling harder than before. She takes a few deep breaths, as if Morrigan’s son is something to guard against. “Is he...is he strange in any way?”

“He seems ordinary enough.” I tilt my head at her, but she looks away.  _ They did not part on good terms _ , Leliana had said. I had not imagined Morrigan’s son to be a part of the problem. And judging by Leliana’s initial surprise at his existence, she didn’t know the cause either. “I do not understand.”

“It’s a long story, salroka.” She sighs, running her hand over her close-cropped hair. 

“If there’s anything else I can do, I...I would prefer to be helpful,” I offer. 

She nods, squinting at the sky. Alistair waves her over, and she moves in his direction, grinning as if she had never scowled in her life. 


	33. Kieran

***

_Morrigan_

***

Skyhold is a most curious beast.

Tarasyl’an Te’las, the ancient elves called it. ‘Twas some kind of ritual site, a place for ancient magic. I can taste the history in the air, like salt where it doesn’t belong. The keep itself came much later, but that old magic has claimed it for its own, seeped into the very stones.

And now, heretics in Chantry robes make it the seat of a rebel religion. I wonder how the stones feel about such a thing. Leliana seems to think the Inquisition’s arrival here something natural, ordained by her Maker. Her mind paints me as a dangerous interloper, though I do fancy the place itself may think it very much the other way ‘round.

Keiran likes it here, I think. Better than he liked court, at any rate. Fewer itchy outfits, and many fewer rules.

“Mother, I have a question.” Keiran trots over to me in the gardens, covered in dirt from his recent exploration of the apothecary’s potted crystal grace. I smile at him, putting aside the book I’d only been half-reading while I kept an eye on him.

“Mm. Is it a good question or a silly one?”

“A good one.” He juts out his jaw to exaggerate his confidence, and I lift my chin to challenge him. But his dark eyes meet mine, and he doesn’t flinch. _Good._

“Then ask it.”

“Miss Dagna told me this morning that Clemence and Avexis can’t be healed.”

I wince. I had managed to shield Kieran from the reality of Tranquility until we arrived at Skyhold, but this Inquisition seems to have every Tranquil left in Thedas in its service. And it doesn’t help that my inquisitive boy has befriended the fascinating and chipper Arcanist, who has several Tranquil assistants. He has many questions about them that I wish I were not required to answer. “That is not a question, Kieran.”

“But if they can’t be healed, how does the Inquisitor cast spells?”

“Mm.” I hum and put my arms on my knees and look him right in the eye. I decided very early in this boy’s life that I would not lie to him, not actively. But this is a very difficult question to answer without lies or superstition. “‘Tis a very good question indeed. I am afraid I don’t have an answer.”

“Could we not just do to Clemence and Avexis what was done to the Inquisitor?”

“If only we knew precisely what that was.” I grimace as he frowns at his boots, scraping at the garden’s stones. My sensitive boy, always curious, always trying to help.

“They’re hurting, but they don’t know it. They say they don’t want to be healed.” He kicks a loose stone toward the pond, and it falls in with a _plink_ , sending ripples across the still surface. “They told me they wouldn’t want to feel all the bad things that happened to them.”

“Do you not think they should have a choice in the matter?”  In truth, I hate that these people will not fight for themselves. I cannot look at them, let alone ask them questions, because I do not wish to be reminded that such a thing is possible. I hate their indifference. I hate their lack of _fight_ . And I hate Keiran’s relative comfort with their slow, even voices. _Hate_. My Keiran knows little of hate. “If they would prefer a small, obedient life, should you not leave them to it?”

“They don’t know flowers are beautiful,” he answers, as if that settles it, as if a failure to see such a simple beauty as flowers in a garden is the worst fate he can imagine. But then he looks up, and the quartermaster’s son catches his eye with a wave. “Mother, may I go play with Merrick?”

“Yes, Keiran. But you must come to me for a bath before dinner. If you eat in such a state, you’ll catch your death.”

“Thank you!” he calls over his shoulder, already halfway caught up to the other boy. I watch after them for a moment, but they quickly disappear up the stairs, off to climb the abandoned tower Keiran thinks I don’t know he plays in.

“He has changed you.”

I whip my head around, and Leliana stands at the edge of the gardens, her face half-tucked away into that fool hood she wears everywhere. I sigh heavily.

“No one ever changes, Leliana. We simply grow older. For example, you were always overly sanctimonious for a spy and overly confident in your ability to read people for someone whose misjudgments had lead her into torture and exile.”

“Ah, and still your words do not sting, Morrigan. But he _has_ changed you. You are softer, now.”

“An interesting assertion, considering we two have done nothing save for insult each other since our reunion.”

“Untrue. I just paid you a compliment, which you very rudely refuted.”

I sigh, reaching for my book once more. Keiran has not softened me, not a bit. He has made me harder, if anything, for now I have to be hard enough for the both of us. I must make all the difficult choices for him, too.

“Morrigan.” Leliana waits, and my eyes flit back to hers. “The Inquisitor and her party have just arrived at the gates. You should know that Caja and Alistair are with them.”

I draw in a sharp breath, and she watches me like one of her ravens, tilting her head at me as if my face might send her off with a letter and a destination. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You are welcome. I must go greet the Inquisitor, and you must tend to your child, no?” She turns on her heel, and murmurs of “Lady Nightingale” follow her from the garden like ripples made by rock.

_Caja and Alistair_. 'Twas foolish to hope that Keiran would never encounter the others involved in his making. I wonder if I wished it for my own benefit or his.

***

_Caja_

***

I spend all day looking for Morrigan.

I’ve half expected to see her hiding behind every corner. She’ll appear at any moment, swoop down from the ramparts as a bat and land on Alistair’s head, and then she’ll laugh and I’ll laugh and no time will have passed at all. We will both meet her son, and he will be an ordinary boy who does not begrudge his father his absence at all. He will understand that we were off saving the world, and he will not care that I feel a little bit like his absentee parent, too. Because whatever happened that night in Redcliffe, I arranged it. I allowed it. I hated Morrigan for it, but it was my fault, too. I made him, and then I spent the next ten years pretending it did not happen at all.

Or else maybe he’s a monster, an Archdemon in boy form. Maybe he’ll be an exact copy of his mother, all golden eyes and raven hair and guarded mockery. Maybe the Morrigan I once called friend never existed at all. Maybe she really is just some swooping witch of the wilds, and maybe I will hate her now that a decade apart has erased any camaraderie built when we were both soaked to the bone with Darkspawn blood.

Except maybe he’ll be sweet. Maybe he’ll look just like my golden giant, and maybe that would be harder. For both of us. For all of us.

_Fuck_ , but that’s not true. I hope he’s not a terrible monster. For Thedas. For Alistair. And for me, because sometimes I’m still a stupid duster who’s too concerned with watching her own back.

But dinner comes and goes, and I dutifully pretend to wonder over tall mountains and the stone-mason’s triumphs over wind and water and time. I’ve seen enough castles to last a lifetime, and I’ve seen far too much sky.

***

_Alistair_

***

“This place is rather pretty at night, you know.” My voice is shaky as Paragon and I walk the ramparts. He barks a confirmation, and I nod as if he can see me. “And to think our Caja didn’t want to come with us. Said there would be too many stars. Isn’t that quite the thought? Doesn't like stars. So romantic.”

Paragon growls, and I cock a brow in his direction.

“Oh? You don’t agree? You think your mistress is boring and prickly and all together no fun, don’t you?”

He growls again and barks, snapping his teeth at me.

“Ooh, I’m telling. I’ll say ‘Paragon thinks you’re a terrible git. Paragon says you’ve been acting strange. Paragon thinks you should be out here, enjoying the stars. But not me. I think you should be exactly as broody as you like.’ And then, I will _finally_ be her favorite.”

We turn a corner, and Paragon bounds ahead, tail wagging. I’m not sure if he simply stopped listening or if he’s laughing at me. I think he’s developed a sense of humor over the years. Or maybe he’s like me, like most people born on the surface: simply taken away by the sight of mountains and night sky and the fires of revolution below.

Except I’m not _exactly_ taken away. For even more than taking the dog for a walk, I am looking for a son I’m not certain I want to meet. Because if I meet him, he will be real, and maybe he will have horns or breathe fire or have dragon wings beneath his tunic. Or maybe he’ll be a normal kid, and he’ll resent me for not stalking his mother through space and time where I clearly wasn’t wanted.

“Paragon, I just thought of something very terrible. What if he is a fire-breathing child who resents me? Come back, stupid hound! I need to voice my deepest fears at you. What good are you when you’re not acting as my priest or ripping Darkspawn to shreds?”

But when Paragon reappears, he has a boy in tow, one with brown hair and brown eyes and pale skin. He’s better dressed than any servant boys at Skyhold. A squire, perhaps? A _very young_ squire? Or the son of a particularly wealthy pilgrim, allowed to run amok late into the night?

My heart pounds, because I already know who he is. I can feel it in me, buzzing like the Calling that _won’t stop_ , tingling at the edge of my senses like the taint of Darkspawn, but with none of the gut-churning taint. This feeling is just like knowing like, shared blood echoing on the ramparts.

“Oh. Hello,” I say. “I, um. You found my dog. Well. He’s not really _my_ dog, he’s my...my partner’s dog. He’s…”

“His name is Paragon. I know him. He’s the best war dog the world has ever seen.”

“What?” I open my mouth, but words come slowly. The boy just waits, his eyes wide as they study me. “Oh. I mean. Don’t say things like that in _front_ of him. It’ll go to his head. Then he’ll get cocky and try to take on a dragon single handedly, _again_. And then I’ll have to go save him, or else his mistress will tear me limb from limb. Slowly.”

The boy laughs, and he musses his hair so he doesn’t have to look at me. _Shy._ Like a normal boy. No horns. _Maker_ , he looks a little bit like me.

“I’m Keiran,” he says. My heart pounds, and I don’t know exactly what to do to stop it. Take a running jump off the ramparts, perhaps. That would work. _I just heard my son laugh_.

“My name is Alistair.” I wait for him to scowl, to grow wings or yell at me for being the worst father in the history of Thedas. He nods instead, shuffling his feet against the ground. I used to picture meeting my own father some day. I used to wonder what it would be like. If we would suddenly be a family. I clear my throat just to convince myself I can still breathe.

“I know who you are.”

“Oh. You do?”

“Yes. Mother says you helped end the Blight.”

“Oh.” I take a deep breath. I wait for the rest, for the part about how I’m a very terrible man who abandoned him to grow up fatherless and alone, raised only by the least pleasant witch the swamps of Thedas have ever seen. “Did--did she tell you anything else?”

“She said are a very bad cook. And that you used to put dead things in her bedroll.”

“That was Paragon!” I shout, and he whines beside us. Keiran grins, and I relax just a little. _My son_. Except he doesn’t seem to know and he doesn’t have horns and I would be very shocked if he breathed fire. “Oh, now I want to know all the terrible lies your mother told you.”

“How can I know they’re lies if they’re the only story I know?”

“Oh, if I know your mother, I’m sure you can make some guesses.”

“She said nobody but her cared about the Darkspawn, and that all _you_ cared about was cheese.”

“Lies. Slander.”

“She said you escaped from Fort Drakon in your underpants.”

“I found clothes _eventually_.”

“She said you befriended the leader of the Qunari.”

“He wasn’t the leader of the Qunari _yet_.”

“And she said you went to the Deep Roads and met a golem who used to be a dwarf, and that he made _himself_.”

“Well...no. That one is very true.” I smile, and Keiran grins in anticipation. This is something I understand -- a kid who wants a story, and I am so happy to oblige. “Did you know that _all_ golems used to be dwarves?”

“Mother said that.”

“Well, she has to be right occasionally. But don’t tell her I said that. Now, the way it happened was this: we were in Orzammar, looking for help fighting the Blight. And there was this very terrible squabble going on between the nobles. And your mother kept hitting her head on doorways, because she was too proud to duck.”

“No way.”

“It’s true! I bet she still has the bruises. Probably left permanent dents in her forehead. You should ask to see them.”

He laughs, and I chuckle. I settle down beside Paragon, and I tell Keiran a story. I tell a monster who doesn’t have horns, the one I made to save myself when I should have gone charging at fiery, tainted death, a story about me.

It’s a good story. It has heroes. And cheese.

***

_Morrigan_

***

I lay close to the ground in dog form, ears pricked to hear the voices carrying around the corner of the ramparts. It wouldn’t be prudent to let my boy walk alone at night, after all. I am not spying. I am simply listening.

For the last hour, Alistair has been filling Keiran’s head with well-embellished tales of our adventures. It’s almost enough to make me miss those days, when everyday was survival, and the smallest joys felt like grand treats. Which is funny, because I hated Alistair back then, almost as much as I hated the Deep Roads. I can remember crossing a bridge in the dark, so long that torchlight would not reach from one side to the other, and the ground below and the rock above were both swallowed by shadow. And it was just the nine of us, floating in space, hoping the monsters would not come before we reached the other side. Wynne prayed out loud the whole way, and I did not tell her once to keep her god to herself. 

Alistair tells different stories about the Deep Roads, the ones full of wondrous caverns and ancient thoroughfares and evil bravely vanquished. I can't decide if I'm irritated at him for coddling my boy, or grateful that he remembers those parts so much better than I.

I sit very still, hoping that Caja’s aging hound does not sniff me out. He was always good at finding me, even in animal form, though I suppose a decade in dog years is most of the way to a lifetime. ‘Twould be a wonder if he remembered me at all.

Feet shuffle behind me. I know who it is. I can smell her. _Caja_.

She’s been lurking with me, but I’m not sure she recognizes me. It has been a long time, and I’m sure she remembers me as a woman, not a dog. But she is closer now, closer than she has been, and I cannot avoid looking at her for much longer.

_Friend_. I used to call her friend. And perhaps now she will endeavor to ruin my reputation with the Inquisition. Perhaps she has been storing up resentments over my secrets for years. Perhaps she still hates me for the ritual that I performed with Alistair in the dark. 

She pads toward me on quiet feet, much too soft for any human ears to hear. Her footsteps stop right beside me, close enough for her fingers to brush the tip of my ear.

“Stone met, salroka,” she whispers.

I look straight to her, and she is different than I remember. Older, with more scars. Her cheek is still branded, though, and her eyes still gray and unchanging as stone. Leliana said I am softer, now. She could not make the same mistake with Caja.

My heart pounds, but she smiles just a little. _Salroka_. I have been friendless for so long, I had almost forgotten the word.


End file.
